When you say, “I’m being honest with you,” dust settles down for a rest. A curtain lifts. Begonias drop their dresses. “Can I be Frank?” you ask.
You can dance on the head of a pin with your bound feet. You can spell out the seven syndromes of decay. You can look in the mirror and sing to your cheekbones, miracles of deception, a wizard pressing his thumbs against your face, Who touched you on the cleft above your lip? Who asked you to be honest? Hallelujah, I’m not your type.
Hallelujah, you like a man with big hands and a nose to smell your roses. I blow bubbles in your eyes. I dole out donuts for your darker hours.