fter unmasking, you strip naked
& become what you've always been.
You hide in a hovel on a burnished throne
before crawling into bed,
though you've been accursed to loving
the louse, cockroach, bird of prey,
& the bag woman on the corner of Eighth
& Broadway. Now, you linger at a high window
gazing out toward unblinking city stars.
Grandmaster of the id, switcheroo, & spades,
the smell of collard greens & okra
can still draw you out of a blue funk,
into ecstasy, till you are a go-between
walking two paths along the river Styx.
If you still have any claim on the shadow
I cast among mountainous silences,
I bet you're hurting again to become
a red-green rooster in a twilit pepper tree,
an archduke waiting for the ball to begin,
for the flutes & drumsticks to strike up
a slow pandemonium.
|Dublin Poetry Review: Éigse Átha Cliath
|Section 1 ~ Issue 21a