Monkey Cymbals

You adorn me with fur plucked off a circus monkey

like sunflower petals pulled from the stem.

You love me, you love me not,

until the monkey is gutted in the back alley

of a freezing Chicago street.

You adorn the holes in my palms

with golden cymbals that fit perfectly in place

convinced that this is why

you could never hold my hand.

Blood drips down my arm

each time the cymbals clash.

I wonder if this blood is my own

or the eviscerated frame of a fragile monkey

rotting in the trunk of a Trofeo Toronado.

The pedestal I’ve built now has a slope,

our favorite songs are all out of tune,

the stage lights burn so bright

that in their final moments

were always fated to explode.

I have convinced myself so effortlessly

that this is why you could not see me.

I am crucified by laughter in an empty venue, 

humiliating myself on a teetering stage

as the cymbals clash to earn your attention,

knowing I will never be worthy of your gaze.

I have convinced myself with a profound sadness

that this is why I need to abandon this stage.

I send you back this monkey fur but still you ask for the cymbals.

Through gritted teeth I lie to you and say that they were pawned

but in truth I’ve kept them safe in a secret place

as a wistful reminder of the only time you held my palms.