Alto

Alto,
The tone of the breeze that blows through my spring orchard,
Jostling the branch of an apple in its first stages of bloom.

As the sun they never see dips below the horizon,
And the pearl-white screen I project myself onto fades to black,
I sign my name over new letters,
The shadow of my pen making the signature seem longer.

Longer, I hold my notes;
High now,
Low then.

But the screen is black,
So the curtains must lower;
Cast new aspersions on my character in the shade that others rest in.

Still, what is more important than artifice for an actor?
Than doubt in the lines of their opera?

Behind the drapes that cover my bath tub,
I clutch a loofah to my chest and laugh;
The puppet that ran from its carving block brings hysteria to the eyes of the public.

Hungry brains, with dark words behind white teeth,
Longing to snap and consume intention,
To trace lines of thought and build their own art gallery in black and white.

The lights to the opera-house blink out my name;
A one-man show,
A flickering epicedium to the letters covered by my newest poster.

I am careful that the twisting plastic does not slip through my repurposed strings,
The ones that sew my shadow and I together into the same body.

My voice drifts beyond the confines of my theatre,
Still the same echo from cracking tiles.

As I step out into the world;
A mask is pressed into my audience's hands,
Asking them to choose whether to laugh or cry.

Poetry by: Ayanna Kohli

Art by: Bluepoch Games©, Reverse 1999.