I Watch the Cellists

by Sandee Gertz

Chautauqua Institute, New York

The first time I saw you play the cello, I knew
I’d marry you.
You said the flute may be the instrument
of the gods, but the cello conjures
the sound of the human voice — a cauldron
of tones stirred by your burnished arms,
the body of polished pine between your legs.

I could never not love you playing Bach,
all my suspicions silenced in the sway
of notes, the chords a caulk that held us together,
through babies’ first flips to the stomach,
the rolling of change to buy diapers. Until the striving
managed to take you around the sun,
your starched shirts no longer ironed by me,
the abundance an allowance to buy asparagus.

Until you died one night on a plane at
Pittsburgh International, and again in the ambulance,
and again on the table at the Washington Hospital
where the lights spun and the ER flickered with sound
telling doctors to rush to your room.

When you emerged from the coma, I wanted to touch
the skin of the twin, the one who died.
The one left I did not recognize.

You didn’t play the cello for months.
Instead, you chose the stage — one entrance a man
who wanted to be an Orthodox priest, the other
orchestrating a four–way and one reverse sub–plot
of “My Fair Lady.”

There is no accompaniment for that.

The last place I loved you was in the bath,
the bubbles a tonic for the burn of receipts and texts,
lies soaked in like Himalayan salt.
Years have passed and we can nearly laugh
about the days of beach trips or remember first communions
Tonight, at Chautauqua, I step outside for a walk
and hear the symphony.
A pianist is the feature, notes deep like the bourbon
a porch neighbor has poured me in a cup.
I watch the cellists wait to draw their bows,
then slide their arms in unison.
One is slightly out of sync, wild arms flailing
in a drowning sea. It is the twin.
I swallow the liquid, now a dark chocolate on my tongue.
I have no ticket. The fence holds me back.