Death in Venice

I watch Gustav Ashenbach in his beach chair
as he watches Tadzio
wade into the Adriatic
raise a hand in farewell
the sweat of cholera running in
black rivulets
from the professor’s recently dyed hair
and cry with him

cry for his weakness
his love for Tadzio
not because it is unrequited
but because he in his ordered life
his ill-mannered way of keeping his distance
has left him open

to feel some fragile joy
to weep
like the interior walls of a
sanctuary on a summer’s day

—MARY ANN MOORE

(Originally published Christmas, 1998.)