Into the Tempest by Tricia Knoll

The Tempest, shipwreck in Act I, Scene 1, engraving by Benjamin Smith, 1797, after a painting by George Romney.

Into The Tempest

The last moments of this play do not require counting bodies.

No nobles draped over stairways and risers, knifed,
bludgeoned, pricked with poison.

We went along with transformed usurpers, false dukes, new love,
a jealous monster and an exile embracing forgiveness.
Lithe Ariel who hopped the sea winds of freedom.

We applaud sweat on the actors and stumble
to exits, bump against strangers recycling programs–
others whose hours saw what ours saw
and ears heard what ours heard, a ship-wreck storm,
the swash to shore, eyes to a brave new world.

Out into an April downpour
on slippery bricks, a starless night
storm-charged with words, the wind shreds  
pink blossoms on the plum trees. Gutters churn
with washed-up blooms.  

You held onto my thumb, we totterers
advancing through a storm as if the world itself
was no longer at war, under the thumb
of usurpers and grudging poisonous monsters,

as if only the theatre this night
went dark.

Tricia Knoll

Tricia Knoll, an Oregon poet, has obsessions. Writing poetry every day, working to see them published in numerous journals, a chapbook out called Urban Wild, and a book coming out from Aldrich Press in spring of 2016, Ocean's Laughter. Others? Going to theater, running, tai chi, dancing, growing a native plant garden for pollinators and birds. Coming in doors to write more poetry. www.triciaknoll.com