Fisher of Man

 

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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.

John Sullivan

John Sullivan is a Boston-area writer and poet. In 2012, he received the Buddhist Precepts and took bodhisattva vows.

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Breaking the Mold