Mary Cresswell

The Madwoman in the Attic

— see her fall through the stage door
reassembled, barely Aurora,


pink and flustered at the edges,
tracking splatters of spun glass.


A smack of ozone stings across
all the carefully prepared faces


uncovered, reoriented
for the next foray into darkness.


An electric flash illuminates
the instant she arrives.


On the benches
they shift to give her space.


She is more Persephone than dawn,
and there is safety in numbers.

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