I woke up the morning after I killed myself
at the bottom of dawn's red sky
laying in an infield amongst anthills
to a baby crying.

Kids picked teams for a kickball game.
I craned my neck to see mothers suckling infants
in the bleachers. I limped off the field
and sat on the grass. Groggy, all
I could think about was how I was missing
my tv show. Fog rose off the earth.
I hugged my knees. Forehead touched thighs.

I heard a familiar bird song in the woods nearby,
two long whistles that pause and repeat,
a sound of longing only I knew I knew
which I used to hear in the early mornings
out back of the condo where I grew up.

Someone cracked the ball into left field.
I peered over my knees to see a girl running
and trip as she rounded first base. Dust
kicked up and clouded my face. I rocked
to my side and got eye to eye with a dandelion.

I made a fist around its neck, thinking I would
yank it from the earth, place it to my mouth,
with my breath give its body to the wind.
Instead, I released my hand. I gave up my grip.