This is no ordinary dark.
In my day it took heavy machinery
to drill through it:
ellipsoidal spotlights
when Fresnel bits broke,
and mixing-bowl-shaped
reflector floods—
scoops, so-called—
to shovel out the dark
and carve deep tunnels of light
where plays are mined.
Right now
a 100-watt bulb on a lampstand
empties its beams
into the ravenous blackness,
illuminating nothing but itself.
When the stage is empty,
the light must never
be switched off, or so
we superstitious players say.
For those who enter never exit
fully;
we leave pieces of our hearts
onstage.
Now listen.
Do you hear a woman
weeping here in the dark?
I can see her even if you cannot,
crouching on the stage
surrounded by hooded men
who murmur imprecations
in some strange language.
What I cannot see
is the little boy out there
in the darkened house.
But I can hear him
call to his mother
and tell her not to cry,
that everything
will be all right
and he won’t let
anyone hurt her,
bringing smiles to spectral faces
and laughter from phantom throats—
falsehood redeemed
by falsehood itself,
a touch of healing
by the ghostly light
of a loving lie.
