Just call me Shakespeare’s 
girl. Caught between folios.
Pressed into parchment. Dropped
out of hand like a blob of fat ink.
A lost soliloquy stuffed absently
in pockets of blank verse — propping
up the end of the page. Not even
the lady’s maid, that’s me. Back
in the wings trading costumes for
merchants, soldiers and sailors clicking
nifty blades in a swish of thin steel.
Feeling the weight of unsmooth
courses, the host of interrupted
plans. Tacking remembrances over
the mantle. Checking beneath beds
for perturbéd ghosts. Combing
out tangles of over worn feelings. 
Matching cherry lips with pleasing
tongues. Polishing the prongs
of silver forks. Spitting on shoes,
while a prattle of chorus boys wrap
themselves in white gauze like Egyptian
mummies. Fielding lapwings from
ledges. Folding maps against breezes,
that’s me. Protesting too much. Peering
after retreating footsteps. Holding reins
and keys. Making legions of lunches.
Wiping noses with lacey cuffs. Buffing
up buttons. Sewing in holes against
hail the size of frozen ponds. Bending
my ears to the sound of hearts flailing
like dying stars, pieces of crushed
feathers drifting in clouds from the rim
of narrow balconies. Wringing the weeds
from Ophelia’s dress. Setting Ariel free,
that’s me. Gathering tears in little leather
pouches to spill on to the moonlit green.