Audition in 1955
It’s dusty in the theater
And the air is thick,
So the lead apron
Hanging off her shoulders
Is slick against her skin
and sticky under her cotton dress.
Her music is crumpled,
A mess in her hand,
The notes sharp
Against her fingertips.
She catches her breath.
Her heart bellows a rough tune
Into her ribs,
And she dreams of home,
Of busted pianos,
Of splintered bridges, and him.
She clacks her feet together.
She has done this before,
On broken stages,
For crowds, ripe with grime and liquor,
At a friend’s party.
Her mouth opens,
Her muscles, her chords,
Every inch of her being remembers
And prepares. She sings,
And dewy moss springs up
among the red velvet seats.
The solemn man, arms crossed,
Silent, listens.
The moss climbs his legs,
Sticks to his jacket,
Covers his hands.
He rubs it between his fingers.
He takes in her sticky dress,
Her pungency,
Her hands clasped,
Her eyes like Bambi’s.
One day fern and baby’s breath
Will grow where she walks,
But now she is here,
In this theater at midday,
In green cotton,
The ripeness of her voice
Piercing the thick,
Golden curtains.