Let me get the story straight.
He had gone to the ballet.

It had been beautiful.

He came home, sipped whiskey
and water, took off his glasses,

went to sleep.

He did not dream.
He did not get the morning paper.

He did not get the mail at three.

He did not get up to make dinner
and did not meet his evening date.

Earlier that day his ex-wife
had jogged to his house.

She had stood outside his bedroom window and wept.

She did not know he had died.
In fact she was crying because

they had divorced, and were still alive.

Later that night, as she tried
to rub heat back into his hands,

she understood what had come and gone.
There is no telling when a body
reaches its peak.

He did not dream, he did not shriek.

As far as I know the story,
he died in his sleep.

Maggie Nelson, “January 27, 1984”

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