XIII. A Little Death   In March, eleven years ago, my father died; I wrote to you, then later wrote on suicide When a student chose to die. I said then That it was a selfish act, most selfish, so To tell one's friends the value of their love. We spoke of our responsibility, of what we owe As recompense for love, even if we think no Person owns us, has the right to choose above Our own prerogative to die. I talked of when I thought to walk, young and tragic, into dark And cold, how little swayed me toward another Day. How little stood between my friends' stark Grief and morning's light. It was not my mother But my father kept me, that night long ago.