Depression, too, is a kind of fire - Taylor Mali

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.

In search of something more...

I'm running out of options in the friends department. I'm in a very creative mood right now and want to be with creative people. However, my friend options don't allow that. There's Missy, Eric, Ryan, and Dustin... video games. There's Jason... religion and sports. There's Anie and Schrader... mindless television. There's Debon... boring television. There's Corey... hyper-ness. The only person left is Kelsey and she's in the hospital. I'm really out of options here. I need new friends. I need friends who understand the things I like... poetry, art, video blogs... I need new friends.

"One Time, One Day" from Burned by Ellen Hopkins

One Time, One Day

between Davie | and Roberta
I asked my mom | why she persisted,
kept on having | baby after baby.

She looked

at me, at a spot | between my eyes,
blinking like I had | suddenly fallen
crazy. She paused | before answering

as if

to confide would | legitimize my fears.
She drew a deep | breath, leaned against
the chair. I touched | her hand and I thought

she might

cry. Instead she put | baby Davie in my arms.
Pattyn, she said, | it's a woman's role.
I decided if it was | my role, I'd rather

disappear.

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I attempted to keep the visual integrity of this intact, but this thing won't let me. The vertical lines are supposed to be spaces. It's set up to represent her eyes and the spot between them where her mother is looking. Use your imagination.

I've had similar conversations with my own mother. Of course, since I'm her only child, these conversations were really not similar at all. Her sister, however, has 12 children. And once when I asked her why, she said essentially the same thing Pattyn's mother did... It's a woman's role.