Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/998731-Constanze-Weber
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Music · #998731
Slamming about Mozart as husband, love lost.
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 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.

© Copyright 2005 winklett in the woods (winklett at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/998731-Constanze-Weber