Chorus

Free Verse Poem by Nikki Tate

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Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb
the actors mumble
emulating conversation
upstage left. Dull rumble
at the back of the room,
aural frame for the real action
center stage.

Rhubarb, rhubarb, rutabaga
marble-mouthed, hand-waving
set dressing. Restrained enough
to avoid becoming distraction,
the women are
scenery painted in with sound.

One nods, the other pretends to chuckle,
Note the way
raised eyebrows, rolled eyes
suggest a strange mirroring
of non-existent conversations.

Is it obvious
to the woman in the front row
(third seat from the left)
when Peasant #1 leans in
to Peasant #2 and whispers
You know I love you anyway.
Can the pimpled teen
with a passion for poetry
and live theatre tell
this exchange (note the wink)
is NOT rhubarb or bumbleberry
not pomegranate or any other treat
pulled from the garden,
plucked from a frost-kissed tree.

Only the Peasants know
for certain that this challenge,
or apology is a statement of
forgiveness, a confession
punctuated by
downstage hand on hip,
nibble of upper teeth on lower lip
all dismissed with a limp-wristed
flip-toss of braid over shoulder,
followed by another slow wink.

None of this drama makes sense
in the context of the play
or, for that matter,
in the off-stage world of
Kate and Heather
and the friendship
neither of them
ever understood.

---

Nikki Tate is a writer who lives in the Rocky Mountains in Alberta, Canada. She enjoys storytelling in whatever form it spills out onto the page. She's currently at work on a graphic novel featuring her father, the artist E. Colin Williams. You can view more of her work at nikkitate.substack.com.