by john clare stokes
The going out is never well-rehearsed
Given the script we practice the parts
We feign the inflection trying from the heart
Stage fright stealing the forgotten verse.
There is no room for grieving here---
It might bring down the anger of the gods.
From the wings the lines are mouthed:
My own flesh and blood, dear sister, dear Ismene,
how many griefs our father Oedipus handed down!
Poor actors in the act of life to end
Huddled for the curtain's call
The gurney men await in the empty hall
From the pit the dirge begins.
Now as we keep our watch and
wait final day, count no moon
happy til he dies, free of pain at last.
The stage lights dim as angels descend
Dumb-founded the unrehearsed clamor
in silence not even a stammer
he rises on cue from the bed
the play ends.
Live Oedipus, as if there's no tomorrow!
The gurney men enter and scurry about
Coin the glazed eyes
Close the wordless mouth
Pull the final curtain sheet
One by one the unrehearsed
file out.
There is no room for grieving here--
it might bring down the anger of the gods.
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