Who are yer?
After Bacchae at the national Theatre

Where reason ends gold glitters
soft hands, unloved and aching
sting in the slap of longing

blood must be spilled
to tether hate, the untimely rip
releases mother’s milky scent

we long to slip inside history’s wardrobe
where stories are hung, flowing
seamlessly in chiffon and sequins

freedom is trapped in a vengeful heart
metronome’s march carrying rabid teeth
to Thebes where limbs will be eaten

but this is theatre where dreams
desire and flesh can be reformed
when the sun has clocked off

welcome to the light where
war horses dance and the way of the world
is held in choreographed applause