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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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