NORAH BRADY

Rehearsal

The night is brackish, breezeless, salty-faced

Mary waits to be told, kneeling in the wings;
her shins hurt, she is fourteen and about to
become a widow. Her husband will never
be anything but a man again. They have never
slept in the same bed. Two nights ago she heard
the neighbours where the chickens and goats
are kept— bleating flesh and wonder. But
there is bright light, a spotlight on the ground
and it shines on her when she kneels. Nothing
she ever does there will be more important,
and her messenger likes to see her sweat,
remind her of her place, squirm like a child,
which she is, sniffing in the early spring breeze,
waiting for her life to begin, her desire to end,
her lines— the tip of her tongue, forgotten.