A teacher at the chalkboard turns

    and imagines pushing desks

    together， lowering her body

    onto the one whose question

    about character and conflict

    still lingers in his mouth.

    Behind a curtain of textbook and chalk，

    she shudders¹ thick and shaded

    inside Jekyll's bones， spine² twisting in the hands

    of what she thought she'd turned to ash

    by the heat of her good intentions.

    She unbuttons the hugeness of his coat，

    hears her voice gone dwarfish³ and husky，

    feels Jekyll's nausea⁴ in her mouth，

    Hyde's lust⁵ grinding in her molars

    while stage crews haul away bridges，

    drag in back alleys⁶

    and the curtain begins to rise.

    It's moments like this，

    the director gone for coffee，

    stage crew caught with their arms full，

    when we know what rises in us unbidden

    is woven to us，

    more intimate than a lover.