Poetry

Rigging, Sunday 3pm

7 June 2017

“They’re called barn doors,” she tells me.
The four flaps in front of the light –
barn doors,
as if the light is an animal.
Each living in little enclosures.
Actors in the wings.

“Do you want to put this one up?”
She pats the ladder
It rattles
with each rung. Higher,
higher toward the lofty ceiling.
“Watch out for possum piss.”
The safety chain goes on first.
Keep one hand on the ladder for support.
Three points of contact.

She turns on the light so I can focus.
I open the barn doors and free the animal.
Everything stops.
Specks on dust become stars.
The theatre holds its breath.


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