Michaela A. Gabriel
Enter stage right. I know what the floorboards
think. They have soaked up so many of my tears,
heard blood rush from my head and channelled
pale blue rivulets of sweat. They feel it in my step.
I have laid down Cassandra's staff, Lady Macbeth's
prickly crown, stripped off Medea's sorcery. I won't
drink of the Friar's potion anymore. Red silk shoes
rustle as my feet make room for air, reminding me
of this: How I once sighed in my dressing room,
halfway through an elegy, suffering a makeup
overdose. Heavy crimson smothered euphoria,
three breaths away from my first curtain call.
I have a pair of wings, tailored to shoulder width.
I'm done with solid ground. I'm done with exit left.
