Fisher of Man
For Tony
My wife tells me it’s time
for her to go
pick up
our daughter
from school.
She asks if I’m going to be
okay.
In other words, can she leave
the house for two hours
without worrying
that I’ll kill myself.
I tell her, Yes. Go.
I’ll be all right.
I never share my detailed plans.
I never mention the letter I’ve drafted.
I remember wintry light.
I remember small rooms
and cluttered floors and fights about money
and I remember
too much drinking and too much debt
and despondency—a fetid, drenching, deep-set
rot that soaked into my bones
in childhood.
And you called me. Day after day,
once you heard the news of my pain,
you called me,
from the other coast
you called me,
week following week,
while I wrestled with that ebb.
You called me with reason and with love.
Now fifteen years later, I remember
how steadfast you were and the patient,
absolutely not scolding way you said,
“John, don’t kill yourself.”
We spoke of finding work and getting more money.
You reminded me of my wife and my children.
You reminded me that bodhisattvas have to save
themselves first.
My wife drove me to a
psychologist who listened to my stammered agony,
lowered her clipboard, and said, “Well,
that shouldn’t be a big deal.”
I didn’t go back.
I looked up a Zen place in Medford instead.
But all that took time.
Meanwhile, you called
day after day,
asking how I was,
and
your calm voice
your familiar voice
was like a firm hand
on my wind-billowed
shirt as you reeled me
slowly
back in
through the window.