Gifted Kid
By Emily Jones
Oscar looked down at her from the shelf
There’s a brush of words on paper, a stain
A mess of papers over the desk
Rejected, stillborn children on the floor
A map from the bed to the bathroom
The wall, a red-stringed conspiracy
An email or two, or three hundred
Printed laminated and pinned
By their throats
Shot on film, for her preference
The clone in her hand prior to the rent
And onto the next
Colder now, imploding a gain
A red giant, no black holes here
Still burning
So she made a plan
She revelled, inspired
Oscar is in the crowd
She was called to arms on stage
An army, all different, all paper
Snowflakes on the wind
Never an avalanche, not settling
The scripts, her art, the films
Oscar smiled and stretched at her leg
The black suits clapped politely
She simply braided her hair for battle
Slapped a man from the theatre for acclaim
The first casualty
She made them proud, she made a gallery,
A gallery for Athena, Aphrodite, god and her mother
Apollo held his head in his hands,
Her second, the Emmys, casual millionaires
White shirts this time, neatly pressed
Oscar holds out his hands
Shirts and curls and dresses
Sleepless nights, saying things twice
Old adages, fables, poems,
The map finds her again, and so does the trash can
The nymphs, hidden in water fountains and lace drapes
cracked a smile, shared a wink,
Quietly whistled across the crowd,
And the signal was set free
A bright flare parting tuxedos, the red sea
The nymphs begin to sharpen their claws,
Thy curl the snakes in their hair,
Paint blood on their lips, they’re beautiful
Oscar groaned, dragged forward
To black block and a nymph’s sword
They all cry foul, he calls for stories
Whispered, spoken, screamed
He's in pain now,
Feeling the pressure, the pressure of a shelf
He’s escaped, and holds fast in his gilded penthouse
Artemis calls her hoard forward
To the elevator, difficult to fit
The pitchforks, the tasers, the visors
Pepper spray, keys to hand, between fingers
A new way with words
And a funny change in fates
Oscar’s lobby is quiet. Luxurious.
On the red carpets stand golden podiums
Atop, a catalogue, cinema, dusty books
Put there for reasons nobody can remember
Comrades perhaps? Self-preservation
A claw, a scratch, a beating,
Poor old Oscar,
Thrown to the wolves
Athena sends her snakes,
Descending triumphantly,
Onto the street and there, to Times Square
Their names are in lights now
The next day she wakes
Oscar is gone from the shelf
Coffee, clean, a sentence or two
Hold, rinse repeat
Old mascara under her eyes,
Strap marks on her shoulders and at last,
A new pen in her hand
She leaves, keys in hand,
Oscar in her back pocket