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.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

A version of this poem appeared previously in Strip Mall Magazine.