I cast you as the main romantic lead
in what I always knew was just a play,
and one of words not deeds. We didn’t need
the actual kisses. It was enough to say
you yearned to give them, I yearned to receive,
and as the audience in this affair
I was allowed to cherish, lust and grieve
while never laying soul nor substance bare.
Yet now that you’ve refused to act your part,
missed several cues, torn up the script I wrote,
don’t fool yourself my tears are more than art —
that girl and I have always been remote.
As Thespians are sadly prone to do,
my character loved yours; I don’t love you.
Anna Evans lives in Hainesport, New Jersey. Her poems have appeared in such journals as The Formalist, Light Quarterly, and Asphodel. She is the editor of the poetry e-zine The Barefoot Muse, and her rst chapbook, Swimming, is forthcoming from Powerscore Press.
First published in Measure, Volume 1 (2006)