Sue Hyon Bae
Emergency Notes
i. Emergency Suicide Note
Life is a movie theater. There's always an emergency exit.
When you're engrossed in the movie you don't notice it
but when you get bored. Or the movie gets hatefully bad.
It's right there. There have always been only two types of days,
when I felt full of glassy blood but lacked
a convenient way to pour it out, and when
I was full of gravity and could ignore the door
to the roof. Today is a new type of day.
Today is fatal. It might be different tomorrow
but I haven't the strength to breath. The trains run
slow, much slower than we imagined.
ii. Emergency Elopement Note
(I don't know who I'm marrying since I'm not in love
nor do I ever expect to be. I'm afraid I might say yes
to the first man or woman who asks. After all I can't
clean or steep tea properly. I turned down the first boy
who ever asked me out in sixth grade because I thought
he was making fun of me. A hockey game played on tv
and my hair curled up in my hood during my first kiss.)
I thought if I ever married it would be something quick
in a red cocktail dress. Monday honeymoon. This way
I don't have to invite friends I don't talk to or
be disapproved of by in-laws. You know,
I assumed my parents or friends would read this, but perhaps
you are my lover.
v. Emergency General Medical Note
No drug allergies known; severely allergic to cats, even
therapeutic ones that sit on bedcovers. Pull my roots
if I vegetate. My hair is my best friend: do not shave
unless brain surgery imminent. Family history of
cervical cancer on one side of family, stomach cancer
on the other, and thyroid cancer by marriage. Bring me
an invalid book to read, The Plague or tubercular Magic
Mountain. Organ donor regardless of mother's protests.
Life is a movie theater. There's always an emergency exit.
When you're engrossed in the movie you don't notice it
but when you get bored. Or the movie gets hatefully bad.
It's right there. There have always been only two types of days,
when I felt full of glassy blood but lacked
a convenient way to pour it out, and when
I was full of gravity and could ignore the door
to the roof. Today is a new type of day.
Today is fatal. It might be different tomorrow
but I haven't the strength to breath. The trains run
slow, much slower than we imagined.
ii. Emergency Elopement Note
(I don't know who I'm marrying since I'm not in love
nor do I ever expect to be. I'm afraid I might say yes
to the first man or woman who asks. After all I can't
clean or steep tea properly. I turned down the first boy
who ever asked me out in sixth grade because I thought
he was making fun of me. A hockey game played on tv
and my hair curled up in my hood during my first kiss.)
I thought if I ever married it would be something quick
in a red cocktail dress. Monday honeymoon. This way
I don't have to invite friends I don't talk to or
be disapproved of by in-laws. You know,
I assumed my parents or friends would read this, but perhaps
you are my lover.
v. Emergency General Medical Note
No drug allergies known; severely allergic to cats, even
therapeutic ones that sit on bedcovers. Pull my roots
if I vegetate. My hair is my best friend: do not shave
unless brain surgery imminent. Family history of
cervical cancer on one side of family, stomach cancer
on the other, and thyroid cancer by marriage. Bring me
an invalid book to read, The Plague or tubercular Magic
Mountain. Organ donor regardless of mother's protests.