Constanze Weber

At two months shy of thirty-six
you left your requiem unfinished,
your notes a minor mess upon my floor.

I compose myself and tell you,
sotto voce, Farewell Amadé
and kiss your to-be-legendary poisoned lips
to marry, then, a Danish diplomat
(and he as much obsessed with you as I)

as if trying to forget what keys you inked
or with which instrument
or every time those gold-edged paper whispers
walled our raw rehearsals
for the candelabra-lighted concert nights.

As recompense I have but minuets,
sonatas, operas, symphonies, and scores
all performed in dreamtime rhythms
where our marriage bed complexities
take hurried bows and exit to applause.