Othello
The face stares calmly back at him.
He smears on greasepaint
daubed with bootblack.
Begins inhabiting the body of this other.
Begins to
be the other, breath deep breaths,
hear sounds cicadas make, a
distant
lion's roar, invoke strange deities
with palms raised suppliant
and pink.
He draws a big, soft cloak about him
in heavy folds. How
many curtain calls,
this evening, how much cheering
from the gallery, he
wonders
aware (despite himself) of less
propitious things: pratfalls, for
instance
and the image of bad Art
in floppy shoes
wearing custard
pies.
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