A professional, I take pride in my parts.
The illusions I fake, rolled and tucked
in duct tape, are not about women.
On the cutting edge of gender, I
flicker flexible as silicone or leather.
I make men feel real maneuvering
the stage in a black rubber sheath,
lashing the air with a dog leash,
my 10 solid pounds of red hair.
Some nights, out of sheer boredom
or delight in knowing my pull, I mess
with their heads, mix scents of gardenia
and diesel, paint my face white and stencil
in steeples, or do my Mae West
with a waxed-up mustache, tribute
to Duchamp, dude who drew
the secret behind Mona Lisa's smile.
I've always been unusual,
conning my mom out of bobby pins,
showing up in big sister's panties
for gym. Even then I had a call.
Yet lately, I contemplate leaving
this dive, crack in the heart of the city,
weary of played-out queens
and that bar-stool preacher
trying to pervert me with heavenly
flirtations and dirt on the devil.
I'm allergic to light.
The nearest thing to wings
I'd ever wear is this hot pink boa
feathering me in the spotlight's
finale where I give them all
a taste of the afterlife
revealing my breasts of air.