A POEM by SILAS DENVER MELVIN
the clown takes off his face
the clown wipes off half his face & is surprised
to find, he is still himself
underneath that neat napkin of white powder
& obsidian mouth. he is still the body he is & will be,
the body he will take to bed & try to retire.
the clown takes a rag to both eyes,
undoes the black triangles,
the black lip like a sash of silk,
& blinking back at him is that same transsexual,
that failed cowboy, that poet,
that shy child that grew into a man
who twists his face from intimacy
as though it were a hot brand going straight for the heart.
it takes several washings—a storm cloud of ruined paper towels
spilling a beautiful charcoal stain down the porcelain shoulder
of the bathroom sink—& then the clown is gone,
leaves the not-clown scouring his dark sideburns
for any kiss of white he might have missed.
it is just him: his rascal heart, his outrageous fears,
his plain, plain everything.
oh, it is just him.