Lights up on an apartment half-emptied,
cardboard boxes littering the space
in uneven clusters, strips of packing
tape and the urgent squeak of a
permanent marker, trying desperately
to control the chaos–
that is, packing up a life.
Center stage, a light bulb
dangles just out reach, pours
golden light over a slapdash
stack of whatever was left
to be taken away.
You enter the picture, step
with rehearsed precision, crane
your arm to unscrew the light, and
I approach, hands tentative, then firm,
I grasp your abdomen, watch you
methodically twist, twist, twist,
and I say – and the audience hears it,
but you don’t hear it – I’d sooner die
than let you fall from here.
Skip ahead a few scenes, and
I watch with wide eyes as
your words paint the darkness
of rooms you’ve known, and I ask – this
time, you hear it – can I join you there?
And I do, again and again –
volunteer to install an A/C unit so
you don’t do it alone, take a
train on your birthday, dinners and
darkrooms, shouting matches,
blurry walks on boardwalk beaches,
the rum punch blur of a frenzied love.
Cut ahead to a scene, two
men on a trapeze, your movements
sure and mine flailing, and
I release, and I reach, and
you pull your arms up,
watch me fall without blinking,
all the bones crack bleakly,
a single overhead light fades into black.
And I shout, stamp my feet, sob,
press my palms to my eyes
until my wrists are saltwater rivers –
only silence – so I sit there,
shaky breaths, my final scene,
here in the dark room I asked for,
until I rise to exit, and
Hey, mister, you say –
I hear it – and I take the
stage door, the steel latch
echoing briefly into both our worlds.
michael king 