Lost in Ekphrasis
This is what men gave to me. The Man Lost in Thought. Deep dawning across the stage reaches the walls, in space. Draped over a bust, another bust, plastic thigh and muffler on the counter-air. A Woman is Discovered. She is canker-silk and jewels as he nears. “My name is Hai.” She waits, well, let me see, waits then. She breaks the helpless personal cancer. Urgency flowers.
Go Buy the Romance
Flowers some spring flowers? Man. What’s a spring flower? Daisies? Or daffodils. I couldn’t, either would be, wouldn’t they? For years, sometimes. Every morning, a couple months ago. Man. (grieving) Can a little laugh stay on the subject long enough, in fact, on any subject—Hai! Try to think of anything that won’t increase the pain of it. Perhaps this is too tender. No, to disappear seems too desperate for slight pause. But then again, it might simply be unbearable, cheated silence for a minute or two.
They Believe It All As They Speak. It Grows As They Speak.
She’s in a hospital. Although, frankly, I’m not really sure. Unless she’s stopped to answer. This happened practically all day so it’s understandable. But of course make demands, welcome the catechumen, even. What does this sound like, it sounds like Say! That’s exactly right, yes! I’m so glad it sounds that way. Man coming to the end. (breaks off) Are you so sure— about last summer—it passed and was certainly benign. But…amazing. I’ve never mentioned close, mutual struggling passed. I remember the window. I’ve not been right. I think I know what I want to be said: These simples— looking at the goods. Brooke Ellsworth is author of the chapbooks Thrown (The New Megaphone) and Mud (forthcoming from dancing girl press). She currently lives in Queens, NY and teaches at Parsons.