The Theatre
Writes a
Memoir

(after Albert Goldbarth)

Kayla Martell Feldman

I start in Greece.
Everything starts in Greece.
I do as Greeks do
in white linen and bare feet
with flowers on my head
and blood in my hair.
I say everything in song
and take my time about it.

In Russia, I wear black
and put my hair up for modesty.
I dress for winter, even in summer.
I play house.
I say the same things,
but with more fury, more pain.
In the morning, I hang a shotgun on the wall.

In Germany, I let my hair down
don a fake moustache and a corset.
I change my clothes often,
always in front of others.
I say the same things,
but make them political.
I do a lot of shouting.

I am terrifying in Japan!
Glorious in Japan!
In Japan I am a God!
My crown is heavy
I am weighed down with richness
but they are patient when I speak.

It’s evening in Russia,
and someone has fired the shotgun.

In India, there are 101 things to say.
I only get a third of the way through
before they tell me to stop.

I leave my husband in Norway.
I lose everything in Norway.
I kill myself in Norway.
Norway is just a darker version of Russia.

In Greenland, I get tattoos.
I start with my thighs,
so that when my daughter is born,
the first thing she sees will be art.
I paint a mask,
pull my lips open, and
we dance.

In South America, we talk together.

In North America, they talk at me.

I try Canada.
We acknowledge the land in Canada
with thanks to those who came First.
I say everything they wouldn’t let me say
anywhere else.
What happens in Canada stays in Canada.

I lock myself in a trunk,
swallow the key,
and ship myself to England.
They don’t like it.
I swim across the Channel.
My thighs are stronger there,
my limbs longer,
more graceful.
Someone has come here from Russia
and left the shotgun behind.

I go back to Greece
The economy has collapsed.
I try Norway again
They can’t understand me anymore.
I try Scotland for a month
It’s too loud.
The Russians have gone to England.
The Germans have gone to England.
The Polish have gone to England.
The Dutch are in England.
So are the French.
England has swallowed them all
and made them
English.