red sumac

SCENE E

With the screen still dark, a candle is lit in the window stage right, and behind it, an elderly face lights up. The coo of a mourning dove sounds; there’s a rustle of dry leaves.

DORA

Here beneath my skin
lies the arrowhead
you left in me:
remember us as we were
for only flesh conceals it

From the train I weave
a blur of pictures into dreams
how like nectar
deep in the flower's throat
this sweetness of self-invention

—MUSIC BEGINS—dulcimer and harp

DORA

Across the hilsides
a she-wolf runs full out
beside the train
while Tyche seeds a different world
in each of these hastening windows

The way you turned about
and left a smile so wounding:
for the amulet that hanged
so loosely round your nape
all the world is grasping

I would pluck my lyre
and deepen this night with cadences
but since you left me
each of Terpander's strings
are either missing, loose or broken

When you stepped into a room
your beauty glowed as if preserved
in amber,
and how deep within it's buried,
the fossil of your smile

We stood quietly on the shore,
two reflections, unblemished,
                                 clear in water:
with the wish of hands
I drew you near
as you let yourself be drawn

. . . and then we lay
in fragrant grasses smoothed
for a woodland bed
and under the lucent eye of noon
we let our spirits roam . . .

CHORUS (in whispers)

". . . among the stars within our heads . . ."

In the window DORA fades into darkness and simultaneously, like a home movie, a youthful version of her appears onscreen. Another young woman appears out of the darkness and lays her head on DORA’s shoulder; with her arms draped round her, she looks down at her as DORA glances up. Both are smiling.

The screen fades to darkness. The window is dimly lit. The five figures, now each masked and dressed entirely in flowing black, one by one descend the stairs to carry their faintly lit manikin offstage. Then they return and ascend the wooden stairs up the window, and assemble as a group. One by one, each character removes their mask and lights with a match the candle that they are holding; their faces resemble the shadowy paintings of Georges de la Tour. . . there is only the flicker of orangey light as MUSIC fades to silence.

Then comes a sound of dogs barking in the distance. . . gusts of wind . . . the arrhythmic crinkle of wind-driven leaves . . . barely discernible echoes of many voices, young and old . . . a soft tinkling of wind chimes . . . the figures blow out their candles, a last chord rings hauntingly on the dulcimer . . . silence and darkness engulf the performance space.

FINIS

---

About the Author

Gary LeBel is an artist-poet living in the greater Atlanta area whose poems have appeared in journals throughout the USA, the UK, Japan, and India. He believes that art, or anything else worth doing, is a life-long pilgrimage.