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, a**ured 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 her the truth about children.
But depression, too, is a kind of fire.
And I know nothing of either.