You’re on stage and I’m behind the scenes. You perform a monologue while I prepare a costume change, or soak a blouse in dye for the death scene of a star. I mouth the words and score the slips, on book, flash-lit, within the quiet pitch of the wings. Your speeches all are memorized. All things are not just things, they’re props: I place them in their places night by night. You treat my careful setting like a lie. You act (on cue) as if you do not care; you cannot show that when you threw the ashtray and it broke, and you stepped barefoot on its real glass, your foot began to leave its print behind. I saw you wince before that line where you begin to cry.
Michael Quattrone Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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