1. Music Box (Qi Lai)

My hands around your

waist; you on your ancient tips;

some winding music jabs and plays our rigid corners: pin drops

and tiny anvils

          - the command of the lever, of the lid. Gears roll; their teeth

         release us, chew us into motion, spew us into lullaby.

Our grinding hearts crave: who

looks from above, demands the automatons twirl these circles

round and round

each other, painted fleshy and clothed, faces chipped

to alloy. Some parts wooden.

         Close the top, seal the perennial secret

to rest. Do not spy

on this holy courtship. Let us

be everything when not watched. Let us

take gold from our heaven,

our box lid, powder ourselves

in dust from fairy tales

and wear these shiny bodies in the dark

outside vision, where we release the mold

         and the paint,

rest our feet

and leave our dance, mercurial now, to God.

---

Qi Lai - in Mandarin this means ‘Stand Up’