Obstructed View at Madame Butterfly

The operatic stage is square,

and the square is divided

as a chess board is,

into rows of eight by eight. 

I cannot see eight by eight.

I can only see three by four.

The other rows are 

o b s t r u c t e d.

A voice lilts out;

it is Madame Butterfly.

Her voice is not o b s t r u c t e d

but she is.

And I cannot see her

past the o b s t r u c t i o n.

Her voice surges forward

on no power but her own.

And its foreignness 

reaches my ears.

And I crane my neck to look upwards,

towards the giant subtitle screen.

And if I shift uncomfortably in my seat,

I can see the corner of the first word. 

The rest of the sentence

is o b s t r u c t e d.

I look down towards the orchestra. 

A man stands in the pit

and he has raised his baton.

Which he brings down with a fury,

again and again.

And the voice that reaches

past the o b s t r u c t i o n

from Madame Butterfly

obeys solemnly.

Her voice is sustained.

Reaching all the way up here,

to the obstructed seating.

It is nondiscriminatory,

In the way it fills the auditorium. 

It cares not for the o b s t r u c t i o n.

And although I cannot understand her,

and I cannot see her. 

I am not obstructed 

in my hearing.

by Daniel Palmer