Duet

Before it started, there was an announcement:

what had been billed as a one-woman show

would now take place as duet. 

“I’m pregnant.”

The audience applauded, delighted 

by even more realism. The bump 

was proudly on display, drawing 

our attention, feeding from it. 

I kept wondering how the show 

would come off in four or five months. 

Touches of surrealism: the girl already

so far gone while she wrestles a tampon 

for the very first time; the mother 

smoking through her endless condition,

as if she’d arrived here by accident 

from some ancient Greek myth; 

the boxing couch punching around 

his paunch, something about 

“knocked up rather than out.”

The rape scene in particular 

would take on new meaning --

the actor on her back, delirious, 

reaching between spread legs

then suddenly rising, thrusting 

from her pelvis, trying her best 

to get whatever was inside her 

out into the watching world 

where we could all name it together.