To hear Ellen Bryant Voigt reading "Last Letter," click here.

A proper interval, and then
you must love twice as hard, and fast.

I dreamed it years ago, more
a feeling than a plot-line: I was

invisible and watched it all:
everything the same, the house

our house, children, the shape of the days.
It was summer in the dream, late

dinner on the screened porch, so what
if another woman made the soup,

the salad. I also watched by the bed—
you stroked her with your broad left hand—

and watching, thought: she ought to be glad
I'd broken you in. And felt a rueful

tenderness. And thought, or felt,
she looks like me—and so the dream

pleased me with its flattery.
But now I think, better what