After Tracy K. Smith
I blame tomorrow, as I blame all the ways a body can die. I stalk an empty set in my underwear, scrape my face into masks, play to the pills—place-holders for ache, small mimes muttering under my tongue. It’s a performance to wow heaven above, that spoof-eyed shadow. I don’t know anymore who I’m covering for, recovering for. My role was never clear—the director just wanted to be blown. Audiences prefer persona over animus. Enemy animals. Mortal clones. Tonight, I skinny-dip depths finned with sharks, pretend you’re a star far above me, scream. Throat the dark, the deep. No one watches as the water slips past my teeth, the frenzied dance. No one helps to hold my hair. The shore’s too far away to care. I blame tomorrow, as I blame all the days a body can lie.