Opera Lover

Her singing stilled the listening hall –
low note pools to drown in,
high notes like perfume.

She sang about her little things –
moonlight, springtime, dreams –
which she called poetry.

But when, alight, her chest had swelled
to sing about her love,
the others slipped away.

Her sweet seduction was for me
a long denied embrace,
it filled an ancient ache.

The tenor sang his duet notes,
held her, kissed her lips,
but did not win her voice.

With laughter and some hoarded tears,
an aria that glistened,
she shared her songful story.

Too great a gift, these secret lines
unwove some vital thread,
connecting heart and voice.

Though springtime’s warmth had finally come,
she coughed a bitter note,
tubercular and wrong.
With lungless breath, she whisper sang
her parched reprise of love,
a heart-slow final song.

The last sound was her soul escaping.
lingering, finally free,
it rose respectfully.

The missing listeners emerged,
chased her circling essence,
pursued it with applause.

Silent, I knew she had died
singing just for me,
and in the dark, I cried.