A Poem by Amy Gerstler

I read some poetry most days. It's good for a writer of prose to contemplate a story told so concisely. In a good poem, the language is vivid and the emotional pay-off is quick and strong.

Dusk

Dear, I can't subsist on this diet

(really more of a fast—celery

seed and a soft word every other

month) any longer. Is that blood

on your pillowcase or another girl's

lipstick? I want you to know,

I've had such unalloyed joy

over the past several decades,

smelling your hair and petting

your sweat-beaded feet while

you were asleep. It was far sweeter

than I ever thought possible.

But my ancestors are welling up

in me now and keep nudging me

toward the door. Bells are rung,

harps are played: recessional music.

We both know the theater will close

in a few minutes. If you had been

more attentive or a better pretender,

I could have run on fumes for a few

more years, sipping snowmelt,

remaining quite high on it. Let

the record show, I recited prayers

for your perpetual ascension

and good health as I laid this note

in its frozen envelope on your desk

and left, taking both dogs, the teal

parakeet, and the black cat with me.

They got custody of our love.