The Stage Door Poem by Denise Antoni

Surprised by night, he hesitates beside painted leaves.
Canopied by an eerie light, he waits,
Pretending not to know wherefore.
From the original dark into the golden cup,
She steps, re-born, through the stage door,
Into October blue. The mist presses its lip
To her. His ordained vessel, the singular spark
That with only space and voice midwives
Tonight's created universe.
His eyes meet hers, his hand brushes her sleeve.

Later, long after the last taxi,
He holds himself, distils the night. Poised,
He has his own hackneyed dark, preparation
For this knowledge. The gauze wings cleft, the threshold crossed,
His role is over. His vocation
Now is to keep in the hushed stall
Of his heart the flavour of that autumnal air,
To steep the fervour of that moment where,
By the blue faded door, a caress of the fawn suede
On her arm became the crown of his calling,
Her voice the warm cadence of his falling.

Now he lays himself down behind the soft safe curtain
Of dream, reprises that one certain
Moment at the stage door. That first -
Last - act. So carefully rehearsed.

Through the fourth wall she steps to make her play.
And he, in sleep, believes she comes to stay.