At the age of 24, Peg Entwistle became famous
for jumping to her death from the “H” on
the Hollywoodland sign in September 1932.
The sign. The ladder: a tilted invitation. Fog
buttoning up its gloves. Somewhere, my shoe lands,
molds the grass a new face. I wonder as the rungs
darken beneath me if the stars remember
their mistakes, how many give up one constellation
only to be born again in another, the sky suddenly
opulent, arabesque. Fifty feet higher and my disillusions
might look different from the O, or the L,
or the Y. But at this hour fame is just a desire wadded
into purses and sweaty pockets, the beckoning wink
of a garter. I don’t want the city to tell me
what I’ve always known: that everything broken
has kept its promise. All I need is the moon
to undress me, each light above and below a distant
sequin, startling. The night is a gown I toe open,
step into. The wind will handle the rest.
