After the Ball Podcast By cover art

After the Ball

After the Ball

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 I GIRLS, AND BOY Early sun dissolves the mist; bottles and chairs disrupt paths, paving, lawns; deer keep a cautious distance in parkland trees. On high-backed wicker chairs five girls talk, smoke; contractors dismantle tents, lights; fruit strung on green wire along boughs. At a table nearbya boy sits alone,playing cards. IIGIRL, AND BOYS Her hair is blonde,expensive,cut no ordinary way. Her feet rest on a footstoolon the grass. The dress she wearshas small seed pearlssewn on silk. the arm that almost touches him - does not move. She watches,Looking above his eyes. She watches. He runs his fingersthrough his hair,plays with the knotof his white bow tie; notes the girls who talk,notes the girl in silk; notes the boyplaying cards ,nearby.​​​​ IIIBOYS I watch you,as I watch myself,and know the breechthat undercuts your poise; the face, disfiguredby its rebounding image, clouded by what standard partsit can't extract. The picture blurs,but does not hidethe other guests departingin their pairs. IVME, YOU, HER The band is striking jazz tunes; last tunes; light breaksthrough the marquee, draws to shape gothic buildings, trees beyond the parklit by the lightsof early motorists. The moon shrivelsin the opening sky, the blind spot grows: and sorrow, snared; the heart, too, a castle without walls an accomplice,in search of an assailant You meet my glance, and stretch your arm to her, fall in behind the pairthat goes aheadand the one that follows on. ​​​​ VBOY, BOY Behind the doorthe recent worldis lost, and left behind. This is your territory, I know: these trees, this house, this lane,cleared by the departing taxi; but you have not arrived herelike this before; you have watched me,but my voice is alien – you have not seen eyes like mine;not fingers, jaw, nape. I am not an old friend, I am the visitoryou have always known; the stranger within,betraying with a kiss,the kiss that waits. VIMOONWALKER There is water on the moon; and though I know - sitting, almost close, watching the sun slidebetween solider trees – though I know - almost touching; the cigarette's blue smokerising untasted – though I knowwhat we are here forby all we do not say; though I knowthere is water on the moon; though I knowthe names of Roman senators, the parts of trees, the rules of games, I do not know what we make room forhere and nowbelow the tall trees of the wood. VIICHILD​These gestures know the forcebehind lost words; articulate what has closedwith a homing cry, as if the way my fingershold your headalone could touchthe anguish and the joy, the child behindthe adult's facewhose eyes close in relief. You sleep beside menervous to each move. Does the arm that holds meknows who it holds? Am I your mother,brother, lover? Who holds youwhen you sleep alone,who holds you? VIIISOLOIST If I were not so tiredI would spend the nightwatching you sleep; watching your fingerstighten and relax; your eyelids tremble; open,to what the morning will eclipse. If I could trust myselfto care a little less,I would wake you,play this aching gameby patient rules; but though the nightis pitched so quietyou singand sing in me.​​​​​ IXMIGRANT Because I have waited; because I have waited so long; because I have waitedbeside old friends and even strangers, and those grown tired of waiting; because of all of this, all this and more; because I have waited,keeping you for a long journey, I have not learnthow to read the stars I have not learnt the migrant paths I have not learnt which trackslead across the frontier....
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