By Betty Stanton
Once the director caught us, two shadows
overlapping, curtains lifting like pale throats.
Every lamp hummed, filled with the voices
of the dead, of a silence that belongs to her now.
After I scattered her name like sparrows, I kept
dialing her absence, loneliness a dial tone I still
believe is love, or static, two shadows speaking
across a vast ocean of wire and glass. She leaves
fingerprints on the mirror of our laughter. We
rehearsed bows over and over again, learned
our exits. Every kiss was a rehearsal for leaving.
Betty Stanton (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer who lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the U.S.. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in various anthologies. She received her MFA from The University of Texas, El Paso, and holds a doctorate in Educational Leadership. She is currently on the editorial board of Ivo Review.