Last night I found my face below
the water in my cupped hands.
The mask made of copper and bone
criss-crossing to make a smirk,
a false glamour, a plated glaze.
I unwound myself from the heavy
machinery of my body’s burden.
The lute, the light, chime.
I’ll get up and partner myself
with music, the purple moon
peeling itself like a plum.
Men stand in a circle and
they will ask and ask again.
I want to pick the thick bud,
to lose myself in the body’s posture
bending in or away, to let
my majesty and birthright go
and gesture toward a waking life.