| I You walk on the stage; words bubble up between the boards, drift around your feet as mist. Lines hang in swathes from the flies. They tangle, cluster into clumps for you to pick. Plums to fill your mouth, sate your hunger. Stray letters swirl in the light. You breathe them in. II In your dressing room, the air tastes hollow. The walls are too bright, too clear. In your mirror you watch your face fade, your mouth empty. Angela France |
If you have any comments on this poem, Angela France would be
pleased to hear them.
