Act One
Before the drawn curtains, ultramarine
I stand, open, under a silver beam.
I believe I don’t remember my lines
and that is your cue to enter the stage.
Barefoot, tip tapping your light feet on wood
you come from backstage and head for my hand
yet you don’t take it, you take the void script:
Is it possible, darling, that you would
be so kind as to trade your part for mine?
Pardon me, dear – so soft and enthralling.
Act Two
I comply with your words, it’s a stage not a world.
What danger is there? None, if you do talk to me
and I follow your mandate without blinking twice.
Yes, love, I will wear your costumes if you ask to;
I am no player, but a liar I can be –
I am no speaker, but I can give an answer.
What strange soul would not listen to you anyway?
I am still malleable, and I can bluff a role
but you are a player, the fittest of liars –
whether with badly-lit beds or whatnot words.
Act Three
It is no wonder that you wear a mask
you god-looking, sweet talking, drama king,
you boisterous speaker, truth filtering, boy.
Give a man a mask, he will tell the truth.
But haven’t I said all that I could say?
Maybe I could elaborate, player.
You take my place in my dreamplay, you dreamboy
and give me the character faults you can’t bear.
My body’s fading, and do I regret
giving you words I couldn’t remember?
Act Four
Swift, I feel I am starting to have hands again
and eyelids, still heavy, still drawn, and still deep blue.
When I get up I will hold this dream in my grip;
I can fold it, and slide it in my pocket
not to mention, bring up, or open anymore –
if someone asks, which they won’t, I’ll act like you.
I am no player, but a liar I can be -
I am no speaker, but I can give an answer.
And I go about my day, I talk and I lie,
yet still I believe I don’t remember my lines.
Originally published on Phi Magazine: The Dream Issue, Summer 2021
Viola Ugolini 