escapees move like the steam from a saturday night’s barbeque dinner. there’s me &
there’s wine – a little darker than my blood,
pouring into wine glasses, & mine’s
from a stitched wound, you smell something different; hear something
different: an old cloth ripping, tired of new patches [with worn out sutures].
stitches here. stitches there. like the zebra crossing (white & black burns
on me). i made a reputation from it,
i’m quite the archer y’know: bend those lines into a bow;
face its eyes to the sky & its heart below, to the earth –
’cause deep down in my heart, i’m set for home.
just a little more pretend,
play the mannequin lady,
tip toes – let people watch me.
then i place a grin above my chin, holding my gaze at the doctors i repeat,
“i’m okay, it doesn’t hurt at all…”
i’ve gotten too used to the theatre.
too acquainted, i guess.