I met the wife you said was dead. (If you’d known
my cousin takes me to operas, your story
might have been different—I’m sure you own
a catalogue of grief solos, temporary
as song, to tingle passion past champagne
to condolence coupling. The odds I’d stumble
into truth? Slim.) Your love and I exchanged
names. Talked arias and Elvira’s fumbled
passion, soprano pain. She said you take
your daughter to dance lessons. Ballet turns,
unravelled seams. Dog barks and birthday cakes.
I ordered cider instead of wine. Returned
to my cousin. Don’t worry. I didn’t shed
a tear—or tell your beloved she’s dead.
–
T. R. Poulson, a University of Nevada alum, currently lives in San Mateo, California. Her work has appeared in various publications, including Best New Poets, Booth, and Gulf Coast. She is seeking a publisher for her first poetry collection, tentatively titled At Starvation Falls.