| POET: |
Thank you. You're a good audience. It's time for an intermission now. Before the second half of our poetry evening. Help yourself to wine and snacks. (POET gathers up her reading material, takes off her glasses, deposits the papers on a chair next to MAN as he stands up beside her.) |
| MAN: |
Are you a therapist? |
| POET: |
No, but I've been in therapy a long time. Does that count? |
| MAN: |
Maybe. |
| POET: |
(gestures towards the refreshment table)
I deserve a glass of wine after that. How about you?
(Picks up her papers, walks toward the refreshment table. MAN follows.)
I haven't seen you at a reading before, have I? |
| MAN |
No. I came with some friends. They knew one of poets. I'm not much for poetry. . . Usually. |
| POET: |
(she's heard this before)
Well, not everyone is. I hope you're not finding it too dreadful? |
| MAN: |
(not really listening to her)
I need to tell you. . . your poem on suicide was exactly right. . . the .38 and all. |
| POET: |
(puts her papers down, reaches for wine bottle, pours)
Oh, "A Small Convergence?" That's a really new poem. In fact. . . if you won't think this too weird. . . I dreamed that poem. Yes. . . Last night. The lines just came to me. . . in my sleep. . .Doesn't happen too often. Believe me. (Drinks from her glass) |
| MAN: |
(strangely excited)
Just came to you? In a dream? |
| POET: |
(drinks again)
Yes. . . . Like taking dictation. I turned on the light, wrote it down. . . . Just like that. Voila! A new poem. After months of nothing. |
| MAN: |
Dictation? Who from? |
| POET: |
Ah. . . . That's a tricky one. Depends on what you call Him. . . . Or Her. God, Goddess. Higher Power if you're AA. (flourishes her wine glass). Which I clearly am not. The Muse, maybe. Frankly, I wish She'd sent something more cheerful. I've been a little depressed lately. (Drinks again.) But you know, the poem doesn't really mention a .38. |
| MAN: |
I could have sworn it did. |
| POET: |
In fact (forces a laugh), I don't even know what a .38 is . . . except some kind of revolver. Anyway, I'm glad you liked it. I've published a little chapbook . . . have it right here. If you'd like to read some more of my work.
(Fumbles among her papers) |
| MAN: |
(ignoring her offer)
Because that's exactly how my daughter killed herself. |
| POET: |
(drops her papers)
Oh God. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. . . . If I'd known. . . If I'd known the subject touched anyone so personally. . . I never would have read it. |
| MAN: |
No, I'm glad you did. I needed to hear it . . . |
| POET: |
(doesn't really hear him, a little fast, frantic)
I wrote it down because. . . like I said before. . . I haven't written anything new in months. Stuck it in my folder. Didn't really plan to read it. Then we were short a reader. They told me to read for another minute or two. "Small Convergence" was the only other thing I had. I never read anything that new . . . it's just not like me. . . .I am so sorry. |
| MAN: |
(grabs POET'S arm, talking almost as though to himself)
My daughter was wheelchair-bound. |
| POET: |
(pours more wine for herself, takes a healthy slug)
I wrote a poem about wheels once. Called it "Spinning." A motorcycle. And a crash. . . |
| MAN: |
(not really listening to her)
I thought my daughter had some things to look forward to that week. . . . |
| POET: |
(more to herself than him)
. . . just like I was looking forward to tonight. . . |
| MAN: |
. . . the week she did it. The way the woman in your poem listed reasons for living. . . On her fingers. Then ran out of reasons. . . .Just when she got to her trigger finger. . . .I think. . . I think that's exactly what my daughter must have done. . . . |
| POET: |
(pours a second glass, offers it to MAN who takes it)
I wasn't sure about that part. |
| MAN: |
(holds the wine, doesn't drink)
I liked how you had a goldfish in your poem. . . .The silent witness. . . . I guess I was my daughter's witness. . . . And I'm silent too. Like the fish. . . . Because I never talk about what happened. |
| POET: |
(drains her glass, sets it down)
Witnesses are important. That's something we do for each other. Witness. Sometimes I think poetry is a form of witnessing. |
| MAN: |
Maybe I never talk about it . . . Because I was a policeman once. |
| POET: |
(pours herself another glass, drinks)
You surprise me. I wouldn't have guessed that. |
| MAN: |
My daughter knew I'd investigated some suicides. She asked me once what I thought was the best way to do it. . . .Suicide. I told her a .38 in the mouth. . . . Because it's quick. . . And you can't make a mistake if you aim high. . . . And that's the way she did it. . . . |
| POET: |
I really can't tell you how sorry I am. |
| MAN: |
I've always felt guilty about telling her how to do it. I wouldn't have, of course. Not if I'd known she was thinking . . . about that. In your poem, "Small Something . . . . |
| POET: |
. . . Convergence." Convergence is the way unlikely things sometimes come together. In time and space. In my poem a woman, a gun, some goldfish. |
| MAN: |
(finally takes a drink of his wine)
The way your poem talks about choices, about suicide sometimes being the best choice for some people. . . . I think now my daughter made the right choice for herself. |
| POET: |
(carefully setting down her glass)
Choices. An interesting subject. We make so many choices. Every day, every hour, every minute. I think writing that poem was a very bad choice. |
| MAN: |
Oh, no. Don't think that. Your poem helps me understand my daughter. I didn't know poetry could do that. . . . help you understand somebody. In your own family. I just wanted to thank you for writing it.
( puts down his glass, shakes her hand, walks off stage) |
| POET: |
But . . . sir . . . I don't even know your name.
(lights down, then back up again)
(Directly to audience)
I never saw him again. Not at another reading. Or anywhere. Two strangers. . . converging at one moment in time and space.
(begins to shuffle her papers, books)
Sometimes, I suppose, writers are just messengers. Connecting someone who needs to hear something, with a Creator who understands that need. |
| LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK |
