Beethoveniana Edda Marie
 
Before going to bed,
Edda rearranges her room,
and scattered in a pile
I see dozens of clippings:
Stories with headlines like

Una pianista argentina
y su triunfo en Europa
and
Beethoveniana Edda Marie.
They’re from Germany, Argentina,
France, England.
“Edda, I didn’t know
you were world famous.”
“What do you know about me?
You know nothing.”
Then she adds:
“Not really world famous.
Just famous through Occidental Europe
and Latin America.”

Edda is a modest one.
But in the morning
she’s stern and distant.
She’s already three-quarters gone,
and she stiffens
when I hug her
to say good-bye.
She knows:
with such a brutal send off
I’ll think of her constantly,
wondering if I have her
     or not,
wondering how tough she is,
wondering
     if she’s a bigger loner
than I am.