Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Opening Night

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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