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