The Opera Girl

The wails of Andress can fill the entire length of Coxwell Avenue–
when she steps down from her car her cheeks are set;
dramatic pose detailed down to the curve of her foot,
as it lands on concrete inside shiny, black heels–
Her lips, ruby red, curls to the tune of practiced bemoans:
her sobs sliding and climbing the scale perfectly,
like do-re-mi-fa-so.

“Andress is coming” is more of a warning,
as everyone settles in to the only role in her life–
secondary audience members doling out consoles when needed,
feeding back sympathy on cue.
She swallows them to the back of her throat
and collects them in a bottle that she opens
in the middle of the night when she
carves out the ivory in her mask through hugs and kisses
given to her while in despair.

The only time Andress has offered me a second of her time,
was a single smile thrown across a foggy room,
one night,in a party by the Beaches
while the streets filled with tourists for Jazz Festival–
confirming and strengthening the imagery
permanently etched in my head:

Andress, the villainous heroine,
A modern, red-headed Ophelia hiding behind a cheap martini glass,
as she force-fed the room with the saddest,
most solitarily ephemeral smile.


2 thoughts on “The Opera Girl

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