I’m an idiot because once
before we were married she
asked me whether I knew
that we would not be having
children
if we did get married, and I
said yes.
And because she knew I was
lying,
she asked if I was really
okay with that.
And because I’m an idiot I
said yes again.
And once during a fight, not
married
more than two years, she said
she felt like my first wife,
and I, like an idiot, assured
her that she was.
She worked out at the gym
five times a week
and smoked as many packs of
ultra lights,
and I’m an idiot because when
I asked her why,
She said, Because I hate myself and I want to die.
And I laughed and said
something I don’t recall,
something completely and
utterly insufficient.
From the roof of our
apartment,
I saw 40 or 50 people jump from
the towers
on a Tuesday morning—we used
to be able to see them to the south,
just as, to the north, we can
still see
(and by “we” I guess I mean
now just me)
the Empire State Building,
which still steeps me in
gratitude
because I’m an idiot—
out of the smoke with arms
flailing.
And I swear I saw a perfect
swan.
And I was going to write a
poem
about how fire is the only
thing
that can make a person jump
out a window.
And maybe I’m an idiot for
thinking I could have saved her—
call me her knight in shattered
armor—
could have loved her more,
or told the truth about
children.
But depression, too, is a
kind of fire.
And I know nothing of either.