Actress

You are my movie.

I am moving you

out of your backdrop

of husband and dysfunction.

Step off of domesticated blue

and into my electric Technicolor

vision. A stylist devises you

A trim easily tossed

in my direction. I frame you

in long take, jump cut, wrapped

in ennui against city, cliffs, carnival.

Finally—uninterrupted sky, hard

against your soft shifts in expression.

At the cinematheque, we watch you.

My words in your grip, you are pure

fiction rewriting my design,

manipulating my forms, performance

directing my edits: glance

at once blank and masking

roiling passion, your artistry

unmatched and unfairly uncredited.