BY JILL LAWTON
In my head a scene unfolds – I’m not sure how
we came to this: you with daggered heart, dead-in-bed,
seeping into counterpane; me with savage bleeding
from my ears and nose broken by the pungent
smell of death. I read the script again, word by word –
a dialogue (I thought) until you missed your lines
(the ones I wrote) and added others improvised
from half-remembered scenes of recent shows.
Lying in the damp of spreading stain I wonder if
I could rewind the plot and choose a different end
but the credits are already scrolling down
and one by one the audience has left.