rafter two months ago, seems fine this
morning, blowing leaves off the back porch.
Last night I saw him cooking burgers, a beer
in one hand, spatula in the other, surveying his
backyard, as if surprised by its simple beauty.
What makes a man want to take his life?
Mental illness, chemicals, abundant sadness?
Yes and yes and yes and a million more yesses.
When is the bottom the bottom?
I don’t pretend to know, but he looks fine
now. But how can you forget
that moment when you kicked the chair away,
everything tightening as your throat snapped shut?
How can you ever forget that?
Maybe you lock the door
and throw away the key, so that even
on those days when you reach
for the door again it will not let you in.
Last night, while grilling, I watched him
plant three pansies in a large backyard pot,
orange and purple and yellow,
as if he was trying to brighten the world a little.
When I asked how he was doing
he said, fine and day by day,
and he does look pretty good,
maybe thinner and a little shaky,
but if you didn’t know you wouldn’t suspect
he was someone who had stood on the edge of a cliff
and someone or something beyond himself
pulled him back, an act that surprised even him.
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