he Masked Actress of Great Britain

 

I have three screens around me:

a phone, a tablet, a computer.

Each screen exhibits the same images

of perfection — that is, perfection in a moment.

A frozen, fragmented, frame fulfills its purpose

of fabricating a fraudulent reality,

the exquisite and singular event presented to its user.

 

I am tricked.

 

The routine of my own screens

is to present me with a picture of sublimity —

each time I open them I catch a glimpse of Maisie.

My swindled mind is taken by the actress

and the typical inquiries ensue:

the ponderances of me asking why I cannot be you.

If I were to remove that masking LCD,

would I still be as smitten

to be that lovely actress of Great Britain?

Or would jealousy find home in other scenes

as I determine that she is just another human being

an ordinary girl whose actuality

is sequestered by these three screens?

And would I then perceive

that in honesty I’ve only seen

what these obedient eyes

so tempered by society

have wanted me to see?