The Show

The way the evening progresses

is much like a play rewound.

The curtains are drawn after

the last line is spoken,

and the story back-tracks

like an ancient curse.

Nothing quite goes as expected.

Interruptions reproduce

like tadpoles in the spring.

And while swarms of thoughts

linger thick like a cloud,

the locusts are timid and shy.

At prime moments, words plant

their tiny barbed fangs into

soft spineless bodies of remorse.

Playing the part of predator,

sly syllable flips over its prey

like a crocodile’s death-roll.

After the broken phrases,

acidic downpour drowns sound,

and silence pools like blood.

There is nothing left to say,

but the need won’t go away,

so the orchestra packs up.

at the end of the show.

Jennifer Burnside