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Dark Theater

ISSUE:  Summer 2006

Make no mistake: when you were born,
the world did not want you. Did not

need another with precisely
your dormant talents. Stars

shone of their own accord, not
because of you, as they say

in songs someone will one day play
for you, looking in longing

down at your face as you wish
upon a star in the dark theater,

soundtrack or actress
singing the song of romance,

the way dreamers do.
And the lover next to you

will touch your hand as if
that could save you.

Make no mistake—
consolation ministers false comfort;

the gods will not keep you safe
from this moment on; clever

words are mostly wrong. And though
yours was a difficult birth, no one

promised otherwise, regardless
what the romantics say, the ones who wake

in the wee small hours of the morning
to a reflected face they do not recognize,

receding hairline, body bulges, the aching
lush-life back. The earth

more beautiful than ever. Endangered.
As time goes by you will have a lawn

itself desirous of trimming, mowing, roses
tied back, dug up after the first divorce.

Regardless of a bolt out of the blue, moonglow,
the solid earth temporarily beneath your feet.


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