Soiled Hands Poem by Mercedes de Acosta

AFTER everyone had left,
It was always so wonderful sitting in the dark theatre with you.
There was a mystery about it,
As though the echo of many plays
Still lingered in the folds of the curtain, 5
While phantom figures crouched low in the chairs,
Beating applause with vapor hands.
Do you remember how we always sat silently?
I would shut my eyes to feel your closeness nearer.
Then slowly and like a ritual 10
I would take your hand,
And you would laugh a little and say,
"My hands are awfully sticky"—or
"I can't seem to keep my hands clean in this theatre."
As if that mattered … as if that mattered … 15