Aphrodite Baroque

You take it from the top. And then repeat
with longer trills. Strings make a noise like storm –
a cold high flute. Compared to it, you’re warm
who otherwise would be harsh steel on feet.

Your hair is high, pin-curled and powdered white.
Your cheeks are dotted red, a doll’s sweet face.
Your voice so loud it fills this velvet space
and exits echoing. It thrills the night

the night where lovers lie. And in your box
watching yourself, you sit. Behind your fan
you weep and laugh in turn. A rataplan
shocks in the orchestra. Amid stage rocks

you mourn lost love, hit notes of glory pain.
You sing and watch, feel truly and yet feign.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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