Prose Poem

Cinematic scene

Daphne sits, curling her wig hair round her finger, chewing gum snaps against her tongue. Reapplies lipstick. Wanted on set.

Enter Apollo, teasing the make-up girl—bronze appliqué touch-ups; her golden fingertips, his bold thigh.

                Director to Daphne: Stand, reach; it’s like apples and olives. You are the branch that                             grows lemons, figs, car keys. Whatever. Whatever people want. Be that.

                Apollo: I want oranges. If she’s not an orange tree, I don’t want her. I will not chase a                           lemon tree. No desire for lemons.

He smiles.

Daphne walks off set. Apollo follows. Discussion ensues.