the sting of her
flickers
in my sleepy
heart
for days.
— eyelashes
batting slowly
— golden collarbones
rising
and resting—–
like
bright,
blinking
blurs of
what Life
————--should be
– ” The Day After Samantha” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Native Elephant by Cassidy Rae Limbach
The women
are made of
heaven’s ruby lips
and honey-colored stares–
——–They are
those
chills
that prickle covered arms
in the brisk night air-
and
——— those
mysterious
flirtations
that warm dead fingers
with the electricity
of
promise.
but deep
in the bones of their pretty feet
—–deep
in the pits
of their brown bellies
is a passion sickened
and pale.
-Too old and beaten
to come
to life
for me.
-Angie Hoover -Hillhouse
after the war
I buried my eyes
-in the stones
-in the sky
where her blue body lies
—
They draped her in petals
as white as the moon
to soften the sins
that
leak–
—from her wounds
—-
her secrets
smell pinkish
like strawberry wine
but
I see
the foul rot
that will
cloak her
in time
With the Princess by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
When she vanished
-for the first time-
-for the last time-
I could not help but swallow a chalky lump
of relief.
And I’m not sure how it happened but
now I am
engulfed in a
soapy rose–
that dribbles
into my mouth
in spindly Ribbons.
It burrows in my ears
and toes
in rumpled gobs that whisper
and whoop
until
there is a
A fog inside
that I cannot
undream
“Lady in Waiting” by Angie Hoover Hillhouse
Artwork: Lost in the World by Filmout
eyes illuminate
below the calculated flicks of elongated lashes
bold brows raise sharply
in a delicate distraction
as fragile fingers begin
to put into play
plans half-thought through
“Thought Through” by Meaghan Merrifield
yesterday, on the car ride home,
I had to pull over and
imagine you
slipping your slight fingers
under my shirt and over my fluttering heart-
—
I let my eyes roll inwards
and back
to that blinking
jungle of cobweb confusion
that blossoms
in your body
between sleep and sight.
Where everything flashes
then falls
loose
and limp.
“I had to” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Wildwood by Elle Hanley
I see that it is me
I am running after.
soft, bowed legs
flat, smacking feet
and a lung inflated by the the pinching mist
of your marigold perfume.
I live in
circles within circles in a Nowhereland–
but
as long as the haze of your touch
tingles
in my chest,
I am happy to spin
like a carousel horse
with a pole
through
its
spine.
“Spun” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: A Delicate Balance by Morgan Kendall
Perhaps an actor should expect to fall in love.
Because, in a sense, it is part of the job description.
In a way, an actor could say,
“I audition, I network, I memorize lines, and I fall in love.”
“I love you.”
When an actor says it, they have to mean it.
They have to feel it, or you can tell.
You watch a movie and you think,
“This fucking sucks.”
There’s no time for it.
Art that does not come from some manner of truth
Is self-indulgent without being rewarding.
(I don’t want to forget this feeling. When time stopped and all there was… was he and I. In real life he is married and I am living with my boyfriend, and this man and I know nothing about each other.
But an actor’s life is blurred with fantasy, blessed with passion, and cursed with un-satisfiable desire.
I knew that in this room, under these lights, this time set aside for us to act, I knew that I was safe and I was free to experience him. I these
eternal/too-brief
moments, I lamented and he lamented that he married too soon. A mistake had been made, because there was a magic here, a knowledge that came from somewhere else. And desire.)
DESIRE.
.
I allowed myself to enjoy it for a few hours.
But
Like
All
Love,
And
All
Things,
I know it is fleeting.
“An Actor and Love” by Vanessa Cate
Artwork: Drugi by Vesna Pesic
The Show Tell Project 