Fourth Act, April 28, 1786*

(for Atticus and Laura, for asking for a poem, and inspiring the music)
 

This is a piece I know by art.
All the octet’s hearts are pumping out their notes 
with all the might of a hot red steam organ,
mad calliopes of confusion and cunning.
The very act of morning—rising, stretching, 
and finding a page in your dressing-room
wooing a servant
reminds you to at least lock your doors.
In this act, rumpled bedclothes, 
sun knocking the chandeliers askew— 
and French doors rising above a tangled garden 
are backward fallen through by the page. 
But deception by lovers and the loved 
are only splendid on the stage—
here in the final act are happy endings.
Ecco, a countess at a loss for her husband’s love,
Il Conte’s soul bloated with droit de seigneur
and for this, he gets his comeuppance 
while cowering in the bushes.
Ah, this was dangerous, seditious stuff, you know—
But the acts are forgiven, for there is music.
What grand spectacle we could make of our lives
if only there were glorious sounds as this 
to accompany our folly.
But here, the author gets ahead of herself,
for this is where we came in
to find our lives an unholy mess
of strategems, slamming doors and deceit, yet
gross deceptions and identities 
will be revealed at last.
Painful, painful, and none of us born geniuses
to figure it out. 
Doves are maligned by masters of deceit,
and take wing
only to return to plead forgiveness.
Yet nothing need be forgiven,
only forgotten, and 
that which nowadays can no longer be said
will be sung. 
 

*Mozart's "Le Nozze di Figaro" was first performed in April 28, 1786.