Chase Culler's Poem

Chase is having trouble accessing the blog. Here is his poem:

“Story” poem

I have a former student who likes to comment on every post

I enter (input) into social media, which I know he knows is flirting.

The boy is 6’4”, Hawaiian, thin as a rail (and knows it), and prone

to crying spells. Back when he was my student, he was prone to crying on me.

*

This boy likes me so much that he even calls me from the hospital

that night, giving me boilerplate info while inside, his emotions swirl.

Likes me so much that if even I’m at dinner, pizza steaming til its cold,

my friend waiting, thinking it’s weird, that I can’t not answer his call,

because I slave to be helpful. Like all teachers, I likely have the pathological

tendency to see myself in my kids—especially when they lie or disappoint me.

*

And oh, his lies that night! It was like watching the tall buildings of his speech

wend down rivers of lava as the city that is him disintegrates, no center to it.

If you like tragic humor then, you should watch a young person pretend

they are fine after a suicide attempt, if only to regain control

of the many rights they didn’t quite think through losing.

The ability to leave a room, for one. The ability to leave the building, for two.

*

When he calls me again, he is frantic. He wants to leave the hospital

for a track meet on Saturday, which is in two days, no matter what his doctor says.

This is his biggest concern—not that he nearly ended his life,

or claimed to want it, which, for someone my age, is as good

as dying, because it is basically the death of your self-respect.

Your credibility. I don’t even ask him about the Boy who caused this,

although my student is now ashamed enough of himself to hide this part,

to know that it’s jejune. That he should never blame a death threat on a boy,

because that would be unsophisticated. Nor should he blame it on

school, or college, or anything else, he says, although he says

he is freaking out about college, and is also struggling in school,

and that his ex-boyfriend, when asked for help, didn’t provide any,

so Parker, which is his name, has asked me to provide help instead,

which would flatter me, except the matter is of life-and-death

and I am not sure Parker is old enough yet

to have the proper respect for either of these forces.

*

What do you do when a kid you’d previously liked and respected

now demands from you something barely short of love?

It is so complicated. So irrational. I decided not to give my love away

because, again, feeling his lava, sensing his turbulence,

I know this from experience: it is stupid to build your house

on the side of a fault line. It is dangerous to invest

in things that don’t need your full investment. So I called, and I answered,

and I did the minimum, and I did it all for Parker, but also for another time,

a time in which a boy not unlike Parker sat across from me in a parent conference,

saying he was fine, although his mother disagreed. A year later, I got the text.

“Hey, I wanted to let you know—Joseph killed himself this morning.” A text

that has led to years of hugging people; to apologies to people who aren’t even him.