Before dawn. Before the blue burn and guillotined shadow walks.
Before the fall of June. High summer.
How much we wanted our Soprano to suffer for her Art, to really break her fucking leg when the dress she wore leapt toward hell to fight forever
to slit his throat again
to be taken in his arms against her will
to be told it is the only way
to save her only love, her life
to flee into exile like a dove into morning
to slit his throat instead
to weep dark song to fly
to bury her face into her own warm breast and weep
to hear his cries in the wine-dark room
to look into the face of the police detective to refuse
to see into his jealous heated sneer the sparks of lust and power
to know it won't be enough to die
to hear a choir in the darkness
to become a bit of light, jealous as a candle spending itself to death
to find out in the middle of your goodness your heart is dark and loud
to love until you become this music
And at dawn when you think your lives are saved
they are in sweet jeopardy.
And at the moment you are free
the gunshots blackening are real
And the song you sang with him
in the blue heat before dawn comes
back to you now because memory
it is both forever and never too
And you perish over his dead body
And the mob comes
And you promise not to return but to descend
And you climb the wall
And the firing squad lends you its permanence
And your last breath is this curse
Enemies are love.
. . . . . . .