KEIRA LYNN DODD

Piano Forte

 

Thoughts march back and forth,
a steady rhythm without a melody.
I live a metronome life, hands
poised above the keys, a stillborn
song strangled by the silence,
with just the tick of time to tell me
I live.  My eyes are closed.
I am empty.  I die in black and white:

The film plays unaccompanied
by the crescendo of organ music.
I am glued to the screen.
I can’t turn away.
It’s me that I hope to see—
an extra on an elaborate stage.
Everyone else overacts their parts,
but I am subtle, tentative.
I keep to the edges, trapped by celluloid,
as the film clicks by
a bit too quickly.
The stars jerk about, flailing wildly,
eyes wide in terror or awe,
a pantomime of possibility.
I watch unmoving, thoughts
spinning on a silver reel,
the click click click always
in the background behind my eyes,
my body frozen, as if paused,
waiting for my cue
to brush aside the heavy curtain,
shocked into Technicolor,
entrance music blaring…

 

I break character, no longer
on the fringes.  I stand
mid-frame, staring through
the Fourth Wall, locking eyes
with the audience, myself
in the back, smiling now.
The lights come on.  The screen
comes up.  The movie
that wasn’t a movie
ends.  I give myself
a standing ovation.

 

I wait backstage to congratulate
myself, starstruck,
anticipating the moment,
unscripted and natural,
when I will meet
the real me.