Monday, November 03, 2014
Instructions for Theatre-Goers
by Mara Jebsen
After Edward Hopper's Two On the Aisle, 1927
Fold your coat squarely on the back
of your chair; un-crease a programme, don’t fret
about the vague clunk
behind the curtain. Pretend that actors
have no bodies at all. . .
And trust that if the night goes right, a click
will sound high up in the gut, when a story
blows up your life like a long hot noon.
Like a sundial. You stream for miles.
Briefly that star
is you. Enormous and singing
with numb, raw throat. Honed, hurting,
glorious, scared-- of the movements
of time that will crack you
back to your body, now that you’re
just so much stretched shadow, glass. Brinked
to the-just-past-the-crest. Poised
If you’re lucky you’ll find
you’ve been crying. Your spine
aches briefly in you chair; your cheeks
are wet. Try with a sweet pain to think
what you got. But it’s nothing
and gone. It’s the ruin you came for.
Posted by Mara Jebsen at 12:05 AM | Permalink