back garden of the Troubadour smoking over and over
with beer and how wonderful all the turbulence and greeting and ash accidentally
in my wine from me or you or the person on my right twenty minutes before
you have to be on stage F is telling us about pecorino and pig cheeks and
red egg yolks how the cheese is younger and creamier and better for carbonara
yes I understand I say and Italy sounds wonderful right now if it could be
slightly warm and slightly foggy I notice F’s teeth have lots of kindness
as we all move down to the basement old wooden and low ceilings very London
I’ve been told and when it’s time to stand at the front there’s pushing and I’m three
rows back trying to watch you dance through hair and hands and the black
rectangle camera screen of the cameraman when I’m pulled by someone
through bodies to an exposing center position I squeeze F’s arm and mouth
thank you through the blue lights we move with you your tie holds your neck
like I want to all the time and I’d be jealous except it looks so good when
your jacket opens as you spin and I can see where your pants sit at the top
of your hips and where your tie falls on your stomach but the best part
is the back of your neck where the hair curls behind your ears like little waves
with such clarity I could have dinner inside them and sleep in the evenings
like a soft-shell clam when the show ends F keeps me by the stage to see you
there’s a girl talking with short hair you bend over and kiss me three times hard
she asks me as you turn away because you’re beautiful is he yours I say sometimes
Read on . . .
“My Opera,” a poem by Kim Addonizio