I see the actor, staged. Her glowing
skin, her shining hair, her body
so utterly inhabited, joyously
used. I hear her strong elastic voice, watch
her face give grammar
to her movements. I see them
put her in a box. Large enough for a grand piano,
but not larger. She acts well there too, you know.
There’s just not much to do
between those boards. Still,
what part she’s granted, she gives
life—even though it’s corpse, or ghost,
or some ancillary damage. The crate
is shrunk, her moments smaller. Until
she gets too battered,
too splintered in that cage.
A few years later, I hear them say
she’s so limited. And then the box —
they still have not released her —
looks old-fashioned. It’s got to go.
And she goes with it.