Cirque Du Soleil

Cirque Du Soleil

I started piano lessons in 3^rd 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 16^th 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.