Saturday, December 16, 2006

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.

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