Joanna is a rusty film canister
rattling in a cardboard box,

satin costume ripping, a crime
on stage. The last time I saw her

she was wearing velvet,
the color of moss

after a rain. I set
the table not knowing

it would be our last
together. We played Chinese

checkers, cooked
turkey. After our third

flute of champagne the bomb
wrapped around her heart

ran to zero. I heard Mozart,
falling water, a screaming

monkey, something from
Stravinsky.  She poured

herself out, gravy
from the boat. She began

her monologue, it was a burst
of privacies. She bemoaned

a long parade of deplorable
offenses. The affair with the aging

character actor. The father
despised but longed for. His side

burns, the horse whip
used to correct her foul

ups. Too many bit
parts until life was a sequence

of scraps and chards.  Oh the loneliness
of commercials, melancholy

of the cutting room
floor, she wept. Joanna

was all tone and vibration. Pomegranates
splitting, frantic clacking

of a kitchen whisk, cracking
of dry log lusting

for flame.  Then, her
withdrawal. You’ve seen

too much, I’ll get rid
of you, she announced with a trace

of grief and in a commanding stage
voice sharp enough to cut into bone.