Member-only story
Act II
Vignettes were never quite
my specialty, the wrist-flick
pull, dart throw
necessity of pinning
dragonfly seconds to
a cork board. So much so
I swam instead
between recollections,
spelunking for those
olive-sharp moments I
might polish off, microscope,
check and check again.
Where did I lose you?
Surely the puppets were
too soon, mimic chatter
in our backseat theatre
growing up. Perhaps I pulled
too many sliding doors
in sibling yearning, sculpting
checkpoint hallways you
studded full of deadbolts.
But I should’ve known
one-way mirrors
always were your favourite.
Or were they? Cramming
meteor dents from conversations
that never happened with
radio sequels, broom feet,
shuffled and re-dealt
lock-boxed ticket stubs of
honesty. Finally I gathered
hourglass veins, the artform
of the overgrown wait.
Here at the playwright’s gate
we once squandered on a wishing eve,
an encore seat bears
your name;
meant to be empty,
meant to be claimed.
