Act Five

Olivia Loccisano

I made a theatre
out of clay.
Popsicle stick princesses
paper mâché queens
slayed clothespin mouthed
with toothpicks and thyme.
In Act Five,
I no longer had the time
to see the play.
Matchstick bodied knaves
burned the fourth wall
to ash.
The princess cried out
to me—but her pleas were silent:
a phantom
in my memory.

More from Issue 22

More from Prose and Verse