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      February 9, 202219th Nervous BreakdownRachel Mallalieu

      I had this friend whose mother
      had her 19th nervous breakdown
      the year the Stones released
      “19th Nervous Breakdown,” and let
      me tell you, that shit was funny when we
      were thirteen. We always knew his mom
      was headed for a hospital stay
      when instead of offering us
      cookies, she accused him of wanting
      sex with his grandma.
       
      This guy had a big brother who also
      was not right in the head, and
      he checked himself into the loony
      bin and stayed six weeks.
      He left when they kicked him out and
      said he owed five thousand bucks.
      The brother did not take that well and wept
      and screamed; we all
      told him to shut up and get a grip.
      Instead, he went to the basement and put
      a shotgun into his mouth.
      No one knew what happened until
      the hound dog dropped
      a piece of his skull under
      the kitchen table.
       
      This friend was a good son.
      We all got married but he still
      lived with his dad.
      Each night, they shared a pack of
      cigarettes and ate their frozen
      dinners on card tables, but
      those cigarettes came hard.
      His pop’s lungs failed and he died quick.
      Then he shared his dinner with the dog
      and tried to quit smoking.
       
      I know the kind of guy you’re imagining—
      long stringy hair and the
      crooked teeth he would hide
      behind his hand if he smiled.
      You wouldn’t be wrong.
      But he also kept track of birthdays,
      sent money to his deadbeat younger
      brother and kept a list of questions
      he wanted to ask me in a file labeled
      with my name.
       
      One day he asked me if a person
      went straight to Hell if he killed
      himself. I said of course not, but
      wondered if he was thinking about it.
      He mumbled no, he was too
      chickenshit, and promised to call me
      if that changed.
       
      You see where this is heading.
      He lost his job, his health insurance,
      and had a fight with his younger brother.
      He went to the funeral home, paid for a casket
      and asked that no obituary be published.
      He cleaned his house, wrote his will and slipped
      the rope around his neck.
      He did not call.
       
      It was days before anyone found him.
      But appreciating a dog’s proclivities,
      he had already placed the animal in a shelter.

      from #74 – Winter 2021

      Rachel Mallalieu

      “I’m an emergency physician and mother of five. I write poetry to survive both!”