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.