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?