devil's profession

                   I used to think

                   in The Third Person....

                   I used to think in The Third Person:
                  “Proud and brave, she faced the worst”,

                   make-believing worst

                   would not outface me.

                   I sent “her” out
                   to fight my battles,

                   play happy fool at parties,

                   acting loud for me

                   while I hid at home.

                  

                   Now I look at her

                   in embarrassment:

                   hunched in corner, beaten,

                   blurry-eyed, unravelling.

                   If I put her up for auction,

                   they’d charge me Unsold Lot Fee.

                   Mother’s lore betrayed:
                   always be amusing,
                   don’t talk about yourself,
                   or show self-pity.
                   Natural to her, heroic;
                   forced irony in me.
                   Chivalric vocation,
                   holy grail shone,
                   suspending disbelief
                   for lifetime not my own.
                  All along it was her I loved,
                   not theatre and plays.

                  There was a young girl in love with acting.

                  I remember her moment of knowing

                           as she looked in the mirror

                                and saw her mother

                    putting her character’s make-up on.

                  When I was six and a bit, I was stage-struck.

                  Now I have changed, and so has it.

                              Theatre’s a whore

                                  that I abhor.

                    Now I just think - oh, acting, Nantucket.



I used to think
in the Third Person:
“Proud and brave, she faced the worst”
make-believing worst
would not outface me.

I sent “her” out to fight my battles
or play the happy fool at parties,
acting for me
while I stayed home
and hid.

Now I look at her
in embarrassment:
slouched in the corner, beaten,
blurry-eyed, unravelling.
If I put her up for auction,
they’d charge me Unsold Lot Fee.
 
Mother’s lore betrayed:
always be amusing,
don’t talk about yourself,
never self-pity.
Natural to her, heroic;
forced irony in me.
Chivalric vocation
suspended disbelief for lifetime
not my own.
A double-death:
all along it was her I loved,
not theatre and plays.

There was a young girl in love with acting.
I remember her moment of knowing
   As she looked in the mirror
   And saw her mother
Putting her character’s make-up on.

When I was six, I was stage-struck.
Now I have changed, and so has it.
   Theatre’s a whore
   That I abhor.
Now I think, Nantucket.


© Pippa Rathborne 2010