I can’t pretend
to masquerade roles
I have no script for.
Standing in the ballroom: centered and focused
will not get me to light the chandelier.
A soft spoken promise lies dormant in my right hand
so tightly clutched
I wonder if it lives still.
I’ll flex open these muscles on the day of
when stars detach from their strings–
I’ll take on paper wings,
sprouting from its cave, this promise
producing a gust so fearful
tables turn upside down.
Then: centered and focused
I’ll gaze upward.
The chandelier drops elegantly.