I’m in awe of how you entered attached to a wire amidst blue
lighting. The smaller white rays projected erect as our hands,
too far to gauge just how large the white wings you wore were,
how heavy the feathers weighed when attached to a skeleton
I imagine was made with more metal than air as if you were called
to carry two people. Such is the life of a woman! and in a ruched
dress that omitted your feet. The world loves to render us
immobile under the pretense of veneration. It’s impractical,
the notion that anyone could exist in an incessant state of shimmering.
We’d accomplish nothing but looking — stiff as your backup dancers
costumed grey and hooded. They stood in a circle, in the middle
of the stage. Dear oracle, who exists in an incessant state
of entertainment, I don’t care that you weren’t actually singing.
It’s enough that you have sung at some point, that you are
a kind of perennial. The Brazilian man next to me sang for you
every word. Notice me. We noticed an anthem of loneliness.
You landed behind a screen, escaped those wings, that dress.
In the center of the pit, your head fell forward. You flipped your hair back.