my uncle smirk got a liver
from a stranger whose kids
still smell the jacket
they buried him in—
and he poured whiskey down it
like sugar in soup,
snickering at the way
ice clinks like morphine pumps.
he was always clever with substitutions:
green grapes swapped for olives,
livers swapped for livers,
the final punchline
to a family prayer.
the doctors called it a second sunrise,
but he preferred the blackout curtains
and a flask’s low laughter.
we all watched—in barlight, in hospital light,
in the shrinking pupils of his wife—
as he clung to death like a favorite joke.
people talk about noble dogs
dragging themselves into the woods
my uncle drank alone at the kitchen table,
turning each shot into a leash-snap,
into another step past us toward the dark.
when he finally did die,
the house was silent,
bowls on the counter still sticky
with fruit salad gone sour.
no one could mistake it for confusion—
every choice had been deliberate,
every laugh rehearsed.
dying alone is underrated,
he once told me,
because nobody ruins the joke
__________________________________________ suicide is underrated by Jeremey Jusek
Jeremy was inaugural the poet laureate of Parma, Ohio (’22-’24). He has authored three books: We Grow Tomatoes in Tiny Towns, The Less Traveled Street, and The Details Will Be Gone Soon. He hosts the Ohio Poetry Association’s podcast Poetry Spotlight, runs the West Side Poetry Workshop, and founded the Flamingo Writers’ Guild.