'Upon Hearing About the Suicide of the Daughter of Friends,' by Jo McDougall

Something called to her that Sunday afternoon, perhaps,
that she could not name.
You and I cannot name it, drawn to each other
by this news.
The young cry when they feel it
breathing beside them.
We may know it sometimes through its disguises,
say the sound of a car at two a.m.
grinding to a stop in a gravel drive.

(1991)