Aftermath
In the aftermath,
Some of Philip’s patients called me. Needed
To be lied to, or at least hear things
That no one ever knew. One round, brown headed
Woman feared he did not realize
She loved him. I said he did, and no one could
Have loved him better in her place. A thin
Man who never rested in a chair
Needed to know if he somehow pulled
The trigger. I said absolutely not,
although I never learned what forces
did. A girl who passed her shrieking hours
On her own slippery cliff of suicide
Now felt death as real as falling
Through the stairs, fell through me, landed
Like an acrobat with other helpers.
Now 10 years later, this man starts
Our talk with Philip’s name. He is short
Black hair springs forth from almost every
Inch of face and head. No he was done
With therapy before his therapist
Was done with him. The suicide was neither
Here nor there. But lately there are dreams
and empty ringing nights. He recalled
my name that he’d been given so he called.
First his brother, now his daddy, dead.
Spook him out of sleep they joke, play tricks,
Or just walk by without a glance his way.
He wakes afraid again. Charles was so
Good looking, went off hunting with their daddy
And holds the trophy in this photograph.
“My daddy kept this in his wallet.” His daddy
Didn’t like that he was smart and read
His mother’s books. He passed in raging pain.
Death grabbed them young. Has his life overstayed?
He gazes out the window silently.
I see the shotgun silver in his lap.
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