it always happens at the last moment
once he swears off love, life and the name of god
licks the last drop of whiskey
from the last whiskey bottle
and drags on his last cigarette on earth

just as he stands there facing the precipice
wind in his face stealing his howl; wishing he could splatter his brains -
but all he's got is blanks;
or throw himself from the cliffs laughing

he wonders whether he'd still be laughing when he hit
the second time and the third and all the way down
he wonders if he would feel the pain
and whether he'd remember any of it when he woke up -
if he ever woke up would it be the same?
would it be anything?

so he ditches the blanks-shooting pistol and steps back a few yards
deciding to go for it full speed and jump
and he runs
runs and as he lifts off it hits him -
the answer that was always there
always ready to be found there all this time
for him just for him and he never saw it
until now

isn't that funny - he laughs all the way down
even while hitting again and again without bothering to feel the pain
because the last thought he makes out before the light blinks out
is to ask himself

will i remember it the next time?

A freelance and art photographer currently based in Dubai,
Ily Goldfinger has been keeping her poetry to herself
until just recently. She recently had two short stories
accepted for online publication.

2006 Underground Voices