I walk a corridor with a man at each end.
One says nothing, but kills me daily with that look – always that look.
I think I muted him one too many times with a heel to the jugular,
all the while crying for freedom and a California closet.

And oh, the other man, he does not know me at all.
When he realizes he can not ever know me – he just creates.
Montage: stockings, garter, Chanel, a boudoir.
Clutching a well-worn photograph he took he says,

I am here with you, in this room. Replay the scene once more:
Feathers, cloak, pistol, frame after frame – and the H.O.A.
still nags about the topiaries. From far away my voice replies,
You do not know me. The trees cast no shadows.

by Angela Brommel