The Cellist

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after hearing Messa da Requiem,
by Giuseppe Verdi at Tanglewood

When Verdi’s Requiem ends

we gather our empty bottles

and unfinished loaves to carry them

back to our dew-covered car.

That’s when I see a couple

I consulted with fifteen years ago,

stopped for a rest on the long walk

through the parking lot. I notice

her legs, mottled blue and streaked

with bright slashes of red,

as if an angry sunset

had been grafted to her calves.

And I remember her husband

filling her syringe with insulin,

his beard faded now to white.

Tonight their eyes meet

with the spirit of sacred music,

her body held between his legs

like a cello, one hand stroking her neck,

his arm curled around her waist.

Dr Berlin has been writing a poem about his experience of being a doctor every month for the past 27 years in Psychiatric Times in a column called “Poetry of the Times.” He is an instructor in psychiatry, University of Massachusetts Medical School, Worcester, Massachusetts. His latest book is Tender Fences.