Verdi’s Il Trovatore

The first time I heard the aria,
it was like sun up after the Great Storm.

The man’s voice rising, then rising more
as if the want of it all wouldn’t allow

him another breath. Like road work
when you’ve punched yourself out.

Like Tommy Burns catching my gut hook.
Like the first I saw of Etta.

Like the sound of the crowd in Reno
when Jeffries couldn’t go on. Like going

up the steps of the Café de Champion
after the crash of a gunshot in Etta’s

rooms. Like finding Etta on the floor,
a halo of blood getting bigger

by the minute. Like the nurses not nursing,
but crying & pointing at the gun,

still hot in Etta’s own hand. Like realizing
Etta’s still breathing, whispering

a libretto on the heels of her last breath:
You did this, Papa. You did this.