They have sketched my face on the play bill.
My eyes and lips interrupted
by the maestro's name, his numbered work.
Bold print suggests a Beethoven concert
but its a play about immigrants
surviving their first sail
and stay in a foreign city.
The title's in smaller letters on top.
I play the lead while Ludwig underscores
the height of this drama.
There I am --featured
with features that imply
a siren when I portray
a Slavic housewife,
a pout when my lips are pursed
in mournful scenes during act two.
There I exist -- a false impression,
shadow to a sonata
that will draw and captivate
a full house more than me.
Backstage, I linger light-headed,
overwhelmed like the wire torso draped
with too much cloth and heavy accessories.
Stage hands bring in more props: oil lamps
leather trunks and ledger with rumpled pages.
A ticket falls out, its red ink slurred.
Admit one -- if anyone,
my confidence, she's roaming the back streets
of Brooklyn barefoot, unscathed
by broken glass or stone.
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