On Tragedy

There is some consolation to be had
(however slight) in knowing that, as soon
as it all ends—as soon as Brutus falls
upon his sword, as soon as Manderley
goes up in flames, as soon as Heathcliff's wolfish
grin freezes on his face for the last time—
you can just start again. All over. From Act One.
As if nothing ever happened. As if maybe
this time it'll be different. And we're all
perfectly happy, perfectly obliging
to reenact it all for you. As many
times as you like. The dagger is unbloodied,
the heart deftly sewn up with silken thread,
the clock turned back. Don't cry. Stay here a while.

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