The mask that burns like a violin, the mask


that sings only dead languages, that loves


the destruction of being put on. The mask


that sighs like a woman even though


a woman wears it. The mask beaded with


freshwater pearls, with seeds. The plumed mask,


the mask with a sutured mouth, a moonface,


with a healed gash that means harvest. A glower


that hides wanting. A grotesque pucker. Here’s


a beaked mask, a braided mask, here’s a mask


without eyes, a mask that looks like a mask


but isn’t—please don’t try to unribbon it.


The mask that snows coins, the mask full of wasps.


Lace mask to net escaping thoughts. Pass me


the rouged mask, the one made of sheet music.


Or the jackal mask, the hide-bound mask


that renders lovers identical with night.

 

Rebecca Lindenberg, “Carnival” from Love, an Index. Copyright © 2012 by Rebecca Lindenberg.