Tram Accident
tram driver tells me I’m going to die
I think about being a mess they can’t get out of the tracks
I think about delays on the line
I think about literary revenge
tram driver tells me I’m going to die
I think about saying something
I think about saying nothing
I have never felt more alive
the bile in my throat reminding me of the liver
that struggles through each day without complaint
death by vehicular impact has no romance
common as dust, hurts the eye like high-vis vests
the trembling in my hand
each nerve fizzing in bare air, stripped of fleshy comfort
death: have you thought of it as cracks in the pavement
easy to step over; difficult to fall into
did you think about the colour of your hair
matching the lining of your coffin
every little girl fears being a murderer;
it is not murder but invitational cannibalism
tram driver tells me I’m going to die
next time, she said; as if there would be:
last time, it was a Mercedes
last time, it was a Holden
tram driver tells me I’m going to die
I’m going somewhere that’s for sure
I’m going somewhere and I’m late
I’m going somewhere
there are metal shards everywhere
death by iron and aluminium overdose, or heavy metal poisoning
blood, simple and total exsanguination
evacuation from natural disaster area bungled by human error
disaster relief efforts thwarted by neglect;
consistent failure to maintain protection measures and emergency protocol
clean-up efforts ongoing and costly
the responsibility of governments and bureaucratic process
why wasn’t prevention the key?
but she did say: next time you’re going to die
I’m going somewhere: in front of the tram
and then under it, and then in a flood back out to sea
Causes
the causes of suicidality in an adolescent
not really adolescent—but whisper, but shadow
you have slammed a door in my face
quite by accident: me, an invisible thing
you have given me extra change at the counter
but I only realised when I left, being an unthinking beast
you have given me a deadline for three weeks,
my breath is coming like a steam train, towards a wall
you have feedback for me—or pro forma rejections
I am anathema; I am excommunicated from the self
you have handed me a gift wrapped in newspaper
I rub and rub at the print so there’s a hole
you have spoken to me with needles in your teeth
I am unspun wool too heavy to pass through the eye
you have spoken to me with syrup on your lips
I am a despising fly un-wooed by honey or vinegar
you have stood up from your chair—your great height,
like a frightening zenith; I burrow down to caverns
Unfilled Script
here, your slip of paper grey and green
a signed name signifying your madness
took it to the chemist in a plastic sheath
as though it were shield enough
took it to the counter under a bored gaze
with the look of a boa constrictor
it had to be withdrawn of course
and it could not be paid for, anyway
the conversation cannot happen, not now;
before, I was warned of effects and side-effects
before, I was told of doses and procedures,
heavy with the hope that quantification would
compartmentalise pain in pill boxes
once swallowed, forever out of sight
I was in the hands of the pharmacist
I would go away right after this
I would go away full of milligrams and acronyms
sit in an office and think myself cured
I told my mother I did not believe in the morality
of suffering; in my heart I did not believe
now the play is planned
with players who do not know their parts
like improvisors in the dark
muddling towards applause
An Jin lives in Canberra. She is involved with a fledgling online literary journal focused on curious and unusual writing at ciceronejournal.com. She is also a recent university graduate and the co-host of a very irregular podcast.