"Behind the Scenes with Mary"
People think I'm the queen
of heaven and therefore I get
priority service. All my prayers
answered promptly, no matter what.
They think I must never want
for anything, having earned
the one perk we all clamor for.
But I'm here to tell you about
eternal life: It’s only as good
as the halo you wear. Nice, yes,
for name recognition at parties,
for clout with the newbies
at orientation, or for lending
celebrity profile to causes
like life and liberty and the pursuit
of happiness, this last being purely
of the postmortem kind. I signed
a contract, donated all rights
to the use of my logo, image
and titles, in perpetuity, in any
medium. It seemed such a wholesome
idea at the time. In exchange
for a sinless, clean reputation
I gave up some things I forgot
I might need. Take the halo,
for instance. If I had my autonomy
I could slither right through it
like a rabbit through a snake.
I could be—for once—digested
by the penitent masses who might
find salvation in a little flavor.
For the record, I have no desire
to complain. I am simply imagining
what would be different, if the editor
of this book, say, were cultured,
or female. I saw this grand play
the other night in Chicago, where
the lead was a woman who loved
a man. She was pious, this woman,
but no shrinking violet, even though
she did end up becoming a nun.
Her man was like Joseph, loyal
to the end, taking work as a gardener
on the convent grounds. Anyway,
my point is: every story depends
on complexity of character. See,
I can't get this heroine out of my head
or out of my halo. It would fit her
to a tee. Only hers would have texture
as well as shine. I think I'll write to
that director, ask for an audition
for the next production. I will say
the following: “Please ignore
my resume and lack of experience.
I assure you I can do this; I'm allowed
to pretend. I have seen Madame C.
and I'd like to reprise her well-rounded
performance. I would like to blush
naturally without spray-paint or wax.
I would like to swirl my skirts
upon entering a room. I would like
my lips puckered by mischievous
wit and my eyebrow upended in a V
of discernment. I would wear just one
wrinkle in my new, thinking forehead
and I'd act like I really was the image
of woman. It would be avant-garde, oh
so three-dimensional. And publicity,
well, don't get me started. I've been
waiting forever for a head shot like that.”
© 2007 Laura Polley
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