The Tenor

Each night I made my way to the wings, 

to hear the tenor sing The Flower Aria

at the Royal Alexandara Theatre. So 

close in the wings I could smell 

the onion sandwich on his breath 

as his voice soared for “un seul desire... 

un seul espoir... O ma Carmen...” Close

enough to see where Eva let out 

The stitches on his doublet so he 

could make the high C each night. 

I was young and a bullfighter then. 

Soaring on Bizet’s splendid staircase, 

in love with the mezzo on the far side

of the stage. She loved the baritone. 

Or was it the conductor? No matter, 

she sang Boheme in my shower. 

Idedicate this poem, not to her, 

she married the conductor, but 

to Don Jose, downstage right,

braid flashing, beading sweat, his 

heart in every note of “La fleur que te 

ma jette...” clutching tight the prop 

rose that carried all my hopes.