Mixed Episode In Black and Red

Included as fuel
for my constant pirouette from one pole

to the other is now and then
seeing the shock of someone

who never knew till now how easily
my black and my red may blend together.

A mixed episode, they call it in the literature.
I call it a lively hell dance. I call it, wait,

don’t run away from me, please,
it’s not entirely my fault unless,

of course, it is; unless numbing sorrow
and its mad dash counterpart are my way

of living; is it a lifestyle choice?
Best of both worlds, worst

of your world? Come now, see
the acrobat tumble in mid-air

with both feet afraid to touch
the hot floor, afraid to fall through

into the falsely solid earth.
If you’ve never seen it before

let me assure you
those are indeed tears of happiness

salting my wounds, which are
mine all mine to either bind to heal

or push open and make over into mouths
crying in my skin. Maybe it’s a song

in dark and light to lead
a pirouette from verse to chorus.

Maybe you are right
to pull away as I cannot.