Pectoriloquy |

The Glory of Lebanon Will Come to You FREE TO VIEW

Mae Olivet, BA
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Editor’s Note:The author writes, “I have a BA in English and work as a bookkeeper. Completing this poem was a recent occupational-therapy goal for me in a partial hospitalization program I was in. I have learning difficulties, am not computer-savvy, and was having a terrible time after there was an accounting ‘upgrade’ at work.”

Copyright 2016, American College of Chest Physicians. All Rights Reserved.

Chest. 2016;149(4):1102. doi:10.1016/j.chest.2015.08.013
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    Dear Supervisor,
    This weekend I ravaged the ivory tulip wallpaper
    in my breakfast-room with black permanent markers,
    but didn’t have time to kill myself.
    May I please take Monday off?
    I minored in dragonfly needlework
    but pills don’t do the trick.
    Neither do lids of sweet potato cans.
    Gran got mad when I stood for four hours
    on the roof of her 30-floor condo building,
    when she asked me to vac her bean Persian rug.
    I should have been efficient in my decision
    if I should jump
    but dying wasn’t the question.
    The cement at the bottom
    looked like it would hurt so much,
    I thought this wasn’t how Sylvia Plath ended it.
    Two red paramedic trucks waited closeby,
    ready to take me to HCMC,
    or to fool me into thinking
    I’d still have bones left to injure.
    Dr. Ells scolded me on the phone afterward,
    I was ready to end my life over a job.
    God won’t let me resign.




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