An American Geisha

Here, have a poem for the day. Reading poetry, i've heard, is fun!


The proscenium lights were lowered
And the dust fell dark and silent
No humming yellow in heat
Soft grey in velvet, filthy in mopwater
Lumps of greasepaints scraped from pale
Faces folded in countable seasons. When
Coins permitted, wine dropped in wooden cups
slipped down worn throats like stockings.

Wires that strained like pregnant seams,
Walking a red dress and umbrella across
The moonlight, went slack and yielding
Coats of yellow and gypsy blue, orange
Gold and silver, folded down in trunks.
Still, one daughter of begging, a souvenir,
Stuffed with air and dripping in moonlight
Drifts up the theatre, an angel.

-J. Hanora