|Heroine, Felicia Olin|
Her boots skidded perilously as she leaped across ice floes
Pursued by the villain; she recalls squirming against ropes
While tied to the tracks, a train screaming toward her.
She can almost smell the wood shavings in her hair
As the buzz saw whined closer, rescued --as always--
By the hero in the nick of time.
She preferred the stage to the silver screen:
The boards she trod became cherry orchards,
Greek temples, a doll’s house, the castle at Elsinore.
She was Ophelia but grew into Queen Gertrude;
As Juliet she turned a dagger on herself;
Now as Lady Macbeth she wrings her red, red hands.
Her swan’s neck is still perfect for Desdemona,
Strangled several nights a week and twice for matinees.
Time has nicked and nibbled her, leaving crow’s feet,
Furrows, dark hollows for the greasepaint to cover.
A ‘woman of a certain age’ quirks an eyebrow in her mirror.
Ingénue, leading lady, character actress—
She is content to be the sum of her parts.