At The Backstage of The Mask Party

I carve your slender body
from the heavy leather overcoat:
a mass, pearl or fleshy fruit.
I hold you tight until you plead for breath.

I fall into your little arms
and you mutely struggle
to circumference me
and make your fingers
meet at my back.

We then hear the ticking music,
in rhythmical topology,
and our colors jingling;
a tale we need not to read.

Anwar Al-Ghassani
San José, Wednesday, August 18, 2004