prop closet

we got ourselves regal in the dark.
one window. a pile of shoes. there was always
more bones to try on. that summer
we did plays. took our bodies off
in every direction. got used to flesh.
helping each other change behind stage.
folds & freckles. how in a few minutes
anyone can emerge a witch or 
a monster. we laughed as we stuffed
hands into too-small gloves. bending feet 
like bridges. archways. trying to fit shoes. 
children's lungs bursting with geese. 
at home i was not much at all. a feather duster
of a late girl. i slept with my eyes open. let the ceiling
devour my face. a boy standing on my roof with 
a bucket of beetles. i never wanted
a show to end. the last performance
a kind of funeral. goodbye beautiful other face.
goodbye shoulders & knees. that was when
we would return those ghosts 
to the prop closet. a room of bursting fabric 
& batons & baseball bats & fishing rods. 
we lingered, holding up dresses & asking
one another, "how do you think
i would look in this?" or saying, "maybe
one day we'll do a play where i could wear this."
when we were done it was like watching a plane
take off. the clouds eating our legs.
outside the arts building it was sticky august.
birds without anywhere to go. 
trees wearing all the custom jewelry 
they could find. i always wished i could
go into the little closet & stay just a little longer.
lay on a crown & wait there
for a story about a king in which everyone emerged 
without anything to take off.