Saturday, February 04, 2017

Cirque Du Soleil





Cirque Du Soleil


I started piano lessons in 3rd grade.
My stepfather made me practice everyday
for two hours on a cardboard keyboard,
Six months later, he showed up 
with an enormous organ in a suitcase. 
It was then I discovered “Misty,” 
by Johnny Mathis.

That month I caught my piano teacher
playing the violin, and fell in love with a man
for the first time. He placed all his existence
on the tip of his fingers, and I couldn’t breathe.
I lost my balance. Insomnia set in like a guardian angel.

March 16th 1988, despite the rain,
the fireworks in Iraq,
the hands inside broken pockets,
the hollow eyes where sleeplessness leans on,
despite the Queer Nation tattoo on my back,
the piano player inside me,

the mute language
of desire knocked on my door.

There I am, lying on my bed
unarmed.
And there was Welder
standing on the side of my bed
with a boom box playing Misty,
asking me to dance. I got up
and stopped in front of lips asking for my lips,
the smile open to the world
the song born out of the wound of death.
I penetrated his pupils full of stealthy desires,

and we took to the sky, two seagulls
romancing the clouds.

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