Voices on the Wind
Voices on Mysteries
by Ken Boe
Behind the stage in the oblong room,
a filament bulb descending,
sit a man and a woman dressed in black.
The temperature is cooling in the back rooms
and getting warmer in the rows of audience
where before them a violin and keyboard collide.
He speaks in diffuse words of warehoused regret,
She has no belief but the suspension of disbelief;
they are like the shadows of a foregone conclusion.
They pretend its just a dress rehearsal.
They pretend its just a sound check.
These walls have been cracking for generations.
Her mother had been in the business.
The light bulb began to sway
to the consequences of dance and falling plaster.
He slid the violin case out from under his chair
and assembled the silencer to the rifle.
She turned the balm to her lips, waxing them red.
The plaster cracked against the floor bequeathing
a secret map of unconscious constellation.
A green light turned on above the door.
Direction comes down like a judge’s hammer,
the law interpreted by an absolute dictum,
like shouting Fire in a crowded theatre.
He pulls the trigger, hitting the fourth wall.
She hits the note, threading its needle,
it weaves through the audience row upon row.
The cellist alights into improvisation,
for never will an interruption be recognized,
never will a mistake be confirmed.
This world can’t tell the difference between fantasy
and history, the alarms and church bells clanging
against the dissension of the familiar.
She exits through the front door, posing for photographs.
He exits through the back door, sliding between buildings,
sliding between imagination and terror.