Floyd Skloot
Lullaby
The last time I saw my mother
she was turned toward the wall
with her eyes closed. Light fell
across her body and flickered
as a spring wind passed through
leaves outside her open window.
Breath shallow, lips sealed, still
she held onto life as I began
singing to her, squeezing between
bed and wall so she could feel
the familiar words drift over her.
Halfway through the final verse
her eyes suddenly opened wide.
They moved across my face,
across the space between us,
then vanished from sight as she
returned to sleep. The song ended,
and I knew it was time for silence.
The actor playing Claudius has worn
the same shirt to rehearsal every night,
a faded royal blue polo with torn
sleeves and grayed message: Ophelia Was Right
.
The student of divinity who plays
Laertes has stopped seeking his inner
hothead. He’s come to believe the boy stays
calm and affects rage while his voice, thinner
the louder it becomes, gives him away.
That new beard, flecked with white, will have to go.
Meanwhile, the Gertrude whispering her way
through another chest cold still does not know
her speech from Act Three, saying No more sweets,
Hamlet! instead of No more, sweet Hamlet!
Her husband playing her son is two beats
too fast on every line. No surprise. Yet
his quick mouth suggests doubt, a racing mind,
something she has not considered before.
At the bar tonight the Director is kind
in his final notes, knowing little more
to do now, certain it will come together
tomorrow. He orders one more round,
toasts cast, stage crew, opening night weather,
Shakespeare, Denmark. He savors the sound
their laughter makes as it rises and falls.
He’s loved them all since the first casting call.
