Cutting Room: A poem by Gregory Askew

She wears him as he’s instructed,

but not all of her has made the cut.

Ribbons of a spirit

defying her good cause,

of a yearning neither can abide,

lie in a pile off to his side;

a black flower, domestic eruption,

potent and driving,

bruises her celluloid frame,

captivating captive.


No words, no anxious assertions,

and no amount of directorial force

can erase the stain,

the sidelong grimace,

at the heart of his dream.

Only a silent contest between the two

each blind to the victory of the Other

where life-exceeding insists

                                                                                    I am...

...eternal counterpoint

to the vanity of his craft.