Backyard theatre & Oz

1.

Who doesn’t want to be Dorothy?
To be filled with angst. To find our
own way, on our own terms, to toss
out our parents’ fears for us, save
ourselves—not in running from, but
in returning someplace like home?


2.

One summer of hot, dry love. Endless
days of emerald sets, auditions,

Oz—we'd become them: me, my brothers,
pseudo sisters & brothers—enough

to populate an old Kansas farm.
Who of us would transform into which

loquacious personification
of our base desires: to be smart ...

to be brave ... to be loved ... to matter?
Who would dance the yellow cardboard road?


3.

The first two weeks of summer, we spoke
like tin, straw, Billie Burke and Judy.
We roared. And screeched like angry monkeys.

We tried out for the parts we wanted,
got the parts we didn't. Scrounged for red
gingham and fur. Collected feathers.


4.

I wanted an audience to quench
my angst. With applause. An ovation.
A bow. And thrown roses at my feet.

Are you a good witch or a bad witch?

It's the saccharine lilt of that first
fluttering line that's hardest to learn.
The tilt into concern not my own.


5.

We tornado our fears—of bad grades and
of silent dads and shrieking mothers and
of snakes in our beds and of friends who lie—
into Oz, balloon home after long days
where we feel safer, out of the spotlight.


6.

Who doesn't want to be a truly pissed
monkey from time to time? Soaring, spitting
rage at our audience from center stage
'til they stop us with a cup of water,
hold us tight until our wings disappear?


Published: Tidal Echoes, UAS Literry & Arts Journal 2008