I Am So Depressed I Feel Like Jumping in the River Behind My House but Won’t Because I’m Thirty-Eight and Not Eighteen
Bring me a drink. I need to think a little. Paper. Pen. And I could use the stink of a good cigar–even though the sun’s out. The grackles in the trees. The grackles inside my heart. Broken feathers and stiff wings.
I could jump. But I don’t. You could kill me. But you won’t.
The grackles calling to each other. The long hours. The long hours. The long hours.
by Sandra Cisneros











