Stage left, stage left, the moon
crushes me to dust.
She is more than mâché, the stone
recasting the actor.

Stage right, stage right, the sun
slithers in, jacketed in disease
and men.
His tongue beats out, nine times,
and blinds the crowd to the show.

Center, center, the dust
in the kiln, with porcelain and plastic,
until it sifts through skin,
and lungs, and souls.
Indelible powder, glimmering,
reflecting.

Stage left, stage left, a theft
from the sun. The moon
perfects all light
and casts the dust

downstage, downstage, over
the black curtain
of the audience.
They'll scrub their rags
and pray to bleach
to rinse the stain,
but I'll rise
from chlorine and dust:
naked, pale, and
cratered.

My stage, my dance,
on the whites of their eyes.
And I am more than a prop of skin,
reflecting the light
against the dark.