Smokescreen
— after performing Nilo Cruz’ Anna in the Tropics
I.
Tampa in 1929 was nothing like Philly in 2011
nor did my costar share features
with my ex-husband except obsession
to take centerstage in my head.
Conchita worships Palomo but doesn’t appreciate
his blatant cheating and can’t
leave him since he runs her
father’s dying factory.
Driving to rehearsal I blasted salsa
bongos and double bass with bubblegum
swung my newly bobbed hair
into the world of the play
Palomo fumes as Conchita smolders
for a handsome reader sharing Anna Karenina
with factory workers who don’t know how to read
love stories but want more than they have.
She’s powerless to change her fate
yet each cigar holds tobacco-tinted longing
packed tightly in a leaf cocoon alluringly
branded Madame Butterfly.
II.
The black box theatre held
a four-sided audience
watching our story
catch fire
from different angles
some seeing my flame
some his impulse
to strike matches.
We stalked
between wooden desks,
spotlight heat searing
my skin through
a gauzy dress,
blue smoke rising
to rafters.
There’d soon be ash.
I crossed to Palomo
who suddenly bore
my husband’s face
contorted by lies
desires to make me
stop talking.
The footlights spilled
shadows across the factory
floor where Palomo shoved me
to the ground
among the discarded
tobacco leaves.
The audience gasped.
It was all they could do.
My last line sang
into silence.
Applause found its rhythm.
I rose & smoothed my dress
over my hips.