On Alice Sebold
She glides into the room
like a ghost wearing sandals,
a modern-day snow white
(skin as white as snow,
ebony black hair,
blood red lips…
you get the picture.)
Her humility is palpable,
her celebrity, obvious.
Carrying a pink nylon bag
which reminds me of parachute pants
and overnight camp toiletries
she approaches the podium with a story to tell,
a story much worse than the huntsman,
the wicked queen.
Pulling hard from her water bottle
at every turn of the page,
she recounts a story of exposure
An hour passes and the audience is captivated, awed, silenced.
She starts to talk about her dog.
At the insinuation of bravery
she retreats, side steps, retreats.
The curtain raised, she becomes a victim, once again,
vulnerable when faced
with the will of another,
bearing the weight of admiration.
She side steps. She retreats. Curtain drawn.
(for more on Alice Sebold, go here)