‘I’ll crumple my painted face into tissue’

In her original poem, Imogen Shaw poignantly explores the identities we put on, both on stage and in every day life.

by Imogen Shaw

Friday May 26 2017, 1:00pm

[Dies Offstage]

When I leave the theatre,

The rain will make the mulching

Leaves smell fresh and crisp.

I won’t need a smoke machine

For artificial mist. My heels

Will click, and I’ll go home

To peel the plastic

Off a TV Dinner.

As corpses go, I’m famished.

I might even manage

A toast to the star of the show.

Crack open a carton

Of cheap red wine.

I hear it goes well

With resurrection.

Before dawn

My ghostly reflection

Will tip me a bow

In the bedroom window.

I’ll crumple my painted face

Into tissue and

Throw it away.

Unbutton my costume and

Shed my cold dead skin.

Pop another bottle of wine

In the coffin.

Revive with another lie-in

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