Mary-Kim Arnold

Mary-Kim Arnold

Argument

You are always on display, you china doll, you morning flower.

Downtown, you stumble into traffic. Pigeon on an injured leg.

You want a house on a hill. You want a house by the sea. You want your mother
back or someone else’s mother. A better one.

The men you meet make promises over drinks. They remember their children,
grown now, how they wish they had spent more time.

They ask you about your career and every light around you dims.

The curtain rises. The empty stage. Everyone you have ever known in the audience
waiting. Your children can’t find you. Their little hands reaching out.

At the exit, you hand out parting gifts. A houseplant. A fish in a ziplock bag that
will die before they make it home.

You say thank you so much for coming.

You say good night, no refunds. No exceptions.