When I rode the zebra past your door,
wearing nothing but my diamonds, I expected to hear bells
and see your face behind the thin curtains.
But instead I saw you, a bird, wearing the mask of a bird,
with all the curtains drawn, the lights blazing,
and death drinking cocktails with you.
In your thin hand, like the claw of a bird, because you are a bird,
the drink reflected the light from my diamonds, passing by.
Your bird’s foot, like thin black threads of bone or metal staples,
has the resistance necessary to keep death at a pleasant distance,
drinking his Scotch and enjoying your company,
as he seldom has a chance; the zebra hide against my bare legs
is warm. The diamonds now warm on my neck,
on my fingers,
my feet,
my ears.
How death looks at them
and my body
and the old man desires them all.
I rode by your window, hoping you would see me and want me
not knowing you already had a guest.
The diamonds I put on for you,
the clothes I took off;
and my zebra–did you see his eyes just slightly narrow
as we came by?
Not knowing you would wear your bird-mask,
I let you see my face.
Not knowing death would be there,
I rode by.
And death and I see each other now so often,
I have even thought of becoming a trapeze artist so that I might
swing on the bar away from him so far up he’d never reach me,
but instead I see him more and more with all my friends,
drinking, talking,
and always his elderly eyes are watching me.
And you, observing me ride by on my zebra and dressed only in
my diamonds, were my one last hope,
but even you, wearing the mask of a bird, invited him to have a
drink
and left the curtains drawn for him,
sharing something which you had no right to share.
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