A Request for It to Always Appear Accidental

The famous writer hanged himself
at home. Since he knew his wife would
find him, what went on between them
that he’d stage this? The self

in its singular pain refuses to consider
the multiple agonies it inflicts.
We are hands-on when we love.
We are collectors of regret.

I’m not a twitchy moth scorching
against the luminary, but I’m at a loss
at this self-erasure. Would he have
erased his words if he could?