Oct/Nov 2001 Poetry Special Feature

What Greta Now Knows

by Amy Crane Johnson

Art by Bob Dornborg


What Greta Now Knows

Her movie credits fade off the screen
at the end of a midnight take.
Who's to blame for those arched eyebrows,
who slaved as key grip, best boy?
And just where did they get that dog?

A silver-screened life
should come with a fancy rewind button,
the ability to begin at the dingy
end and go back
to the greenest opening scenes.

Greta now knows the players
who made a difference,
what violet-throated talent caused the rift
in the scripted dialogue,
who put dope in her hazelnut coffee.

It's always someone else's fault­
a splattering of garbled lies at some
drunken party, a bed she forgot
to sleep in, a screenwriter¹s sorrow
penned into the plot.

Greta now knows what grubby frames
should decorate the cutting-room floor.
She understands that love, like film,
is illusion. She trusts that life
is a good idea­-it just gets bad reviews.


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