we are not in Kansas

February 10, 2007

Our masks wear us. Galaxies tango
as we clasp the hem of a whirling skirt.
Like garlands, my roles are gaudy trimmings

for a sacrifice. We cannot die,
we are always dying: even wallflowers
must arch through samsara like tricks of the light.

I blow-kiss pink clouds as we bow;
an upturned bowl of sun

spills from the edge of the stage
into a fat god’s mouth. This place
is made of what isn’t, what could be.

My inner Judy knows better than I,
she sighs each part away. Applause
fills with a hole. The serpent eyes its tail.


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