Improv
First I’m scorched earth & then
forever after I’m brook-choked-with-ash. Even
when I’m spring meadow I’m still
sooty-snow-pile-behind-Sam’s-Club or if I’m lucky
just leaf-blower-ruckus-up-the-street. The producer
grumbles into his bowl of soup. I say
please, another chance, please.
I leave home & then I’m
lamb-lost-in-the-Milky-Way. I’m Renata Tebaldi
chained-smoked out of her vibrato. Or run it back & first
I’m tattletale, then renegade. Then recess protest
mud-&-berries-under-the-tree-house sous chef. Then
Doc-Martins-ten-necklaces-&-books-under-
the-bleachers. Bad-big-sister. Then twice in a row
my ghost light gets left burning
on a stage swept clean of love
& I’m cold-all-the-time, I’m sleeps-
twelve-hours-a-night-in-her-Radiohead-hoodie.
I make it to Act Two, where I end up fries-or-a-salad.
Tacky cabaret. Cucumbers-over-the-eyes-
like-coins. Loser-at-the-bar lookout. For years I’m
are-you-pregnant-you’re-glowing?-No-just-fat. For years
I’m dirty-lime-slice: browned lips around a green grin.
I’m cocaine-but-only-if-someone-else-is-buying.
I was sure someday I’d play coffee-commercial-warm-hands-
sliding-under-morning-t-shirt but instead I grew into
no-hands-stay-the-night. For safety, you understand. The fist-
ripping-my-jeans scenes come with endless encores. Still,
again. Say freeze. Tap me out. I didn’t want to play
product-of-my-upbringing. Daughter-of-broken-
marriage. I ran from the role but the role
ran after me. The producer keeps saying
we should stop the show but someone in the wings replies
why bother? Says there’s no one in the seats.
I shrug, lock the doors, cue up The Bee Gees. Hello, I’m
survival-as-dance-solo. You-can-tell-by-the-way-I. Yes, and
