It wasn’t that hard to figure out,
Mrs. White with the revolver in the conservatory.
It took less than half an hour—
the right questions asked, the right rolls
of the dice, the luck of being in the right
room at the right time.
Some mysteries persist—you know,
the ones that keep you awake. No cards
neatly dealt to the players. No brown paper envelope
containing the answers. No score sheet
with a finite grid of possibilities. I walk out
and look up at the stars. A voice from nowhere
says the words I do not really want to hear,
but it says them with such tenderness:
some mysteries are not meant to be solved.
I feel some part of me relax, though the mind, well,
it loves a good game. It reaches for a pencil, sharpens
the lead, creates a grid, looks for clues in every room.