Jo Bratten
Elizabeth Taylor is performing a one woman show
in the shopping centre, a small dinner theatre
sort of thing – tables and chairs, trays of drinks –
and she’s up on the stage, playing every female
character in every play ever written. It’s only me
in the audience which is embarrassing so
in the interval I walk the shopping centre saying
Elizabeth Taylor is onstage in there right now!
Everybody says Elizabeth who? and wanders off
for half-price offers and two-for-one deals.
After the interval the men arrive: ex-husbands,
sons, shrink, driver. They talk and laugh over her
performance so after little hesitation I throw
myself at them, topple their drinks and chairs
and tables, like Jesus with the moneychangers.
I lose a shoe in the melee. Liz carries on as if
nothing is happening. Later, limping barefoot
through the shuttered shopping centre, I turn
and go back for my shoe. The men are all gone
but Liz is there, getting ready for bed, right there
in the shopping centre theatre, huge Victorian
nightgown, face covered in cold cream. I find
my shoe under an upturned chair and clutch
it breathlessly. I loved your Maggie I say.
I loved your Martha. You were brilliant tonight.
A tear seeps through the cold cream.
The shopping centre lights are turning off.
A security robot blinks past on its lonely round.
I squeeze her hand. You’re strong. So strong.
Jo Bratten lives and teaches in London. Her debut pamphlet, Climacteric, was published in 2022 and her poetry has been widely published in the UK and Ireland. She is poetry editor at The Interpreter’s House.
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