The ghost light
does not sputter or fade.
It stands as a sentinel
dynamite stick, whose
bulbous flare attracts
moths and phantom players.
The faceless clock
without hands cannot call
the actors to places.
Rows of theater
seats, covered with tired
fabric, today have
the appearance of padded,
worn tombstone slabs.
Ghosts of seated audiences
with the remembrance
of theatrical things past.
Smudged lipstick
kisses on the quick-change
dressing-room mirror.
Costume dummies
standing as mysterious
as Stonehenge.
Among the alleys
and canyons, a lost city, where
overcrowded civilizations
once thrived with
light and storytelling.
On the anniversary
of your demise,
I am pounding on your chest,
O my fabulous invalid!
Come back!
Re-enter our ruined orbit.
We are handing
you back our hearts
to be broken.
I need the collective
unison of gasps, the shared
narcotic of laughter.
Return to me the inability
to catch my breath again.
Open padlocked playhouse
doors, where my name
is carved on the shuttered
box-office window.
Allow, with the pricking
of our thumbs, the
rumble of the floorboards,
the dousing of the ghost
light, allow the cry:
Open locks, whoever knocks!
Devin Oktar Yalkin is a photographer based in New York City.
Tazewell Thompson, an award-winning director, playwright and librettist, is the chair of opera studies at the Manhattan School of Music.
Cover image is of the Metropolitan Opera House, Lincoln Center.
Source: Theater - nytimes.com