Resolution

That night you chose to open and to close

your long anticipated show of shows—

a solo act, for no one at that stage

could match you in your sorrow, your cold rage.

Or so I think, old love. I can’t be sure.

You made no playbill, mailed out no brochure,

wanting no fanfare and no audience.

You knew that nothing could be left to chance.

All the rehearsals I myself attended,

year after year, had always, always ended

before the dénouement. Your hapless plot

had lingered, tangled, tense, a tender knot

lodged in the throat—not only yours, but mine.

It takes my breath to feel that knot undone.