Sarah Clare
Signs; a Play The hot dark descends, more than a curtainIt suffocates the air, the truth, and makes me want to lie forever. Watch me trying to make you out; your confusing skin as blue, as soft as eggshells. Stare at you through kaleidoscopes because there are so many ways to look at a loony. But I was caught whispering, ravings of a burnt bra, perhaps, softly though- which way will this man swing? Such an unpredictable compass he has; it’s why I’m listening to songs like ‘Maps’ and ‘Budapest’, trying to find the right direction. Or force a liaison: -I want you to wear a band; small, discrete -this isn’t a coup -just so I know how you’re feeling -and my fingers hurt from all the glass -because I can’t keep doing this -and I want you to take the choice away -the bruise is like an atlas now -so, solve it all. Hang up. Let me swing. The loud hum of a dial tone. A corded telephone off the hook. Having enough twist to stretch out this permanent yawn; the drone goes on. Someone will get tangled in it all, cry out, fall down. Grieve over scuffed palms. On a grander scale, someone is mirroring the image at the other end of the line.
AFTER THE PAUSE VOLUME 2 ISSUE 1
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