For Lola Lola

a golden shovel, after Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel

in hushed girlhood, i feared ghosts and falling —

now, i fly, dance, sing; i fear nothing but what waits in

the blackened backstage wing — your widegrinninglove,

those round clown cheeks, and it seems we meet again.

for what did i marry you? i once said i’d never —

to twirl on postcards, endless, was all i wanted.

i wed — loveless, pulseless — and here’s why: to

know that you would never tread on me — what

sacred unreality — i said yes, though you don’t see what i am:

keep your pabloblue eyes in your pockets, and i

will try to be yours. your schoolboys swarmed to

my show, then, behind the crowd — you — i knew what to do.

better to reign onstage than to serve a husband. can’t

you see? you’ve made a postcard of me — there can be no help

for the pretty picture and the man who frames it.