You look into the audience and ask
"Who's not from around here?"
and with no warning
my crazy hand shoots up.
It moves as if propelled
by a will of its own.
This renegade limb
is lying,
contradicting my life.
I am clearly from around here.
I was born on this very spot.
You point towards me
and laugh,
"Where're you from?"
but its too late,
my lying hand has fallen
fluttering
dying
across my lap
uttering not a word of explanation.
Silently, I can only shake my head,
I furrow my brow and shrug,
the universal sign for “no.”
As if I've forgotten
momentarily
how it is exactly
that I have come to be here.
But the pulse in my left wrist
is pounding out an SOS.
Save me.
This place is not
my home.
After the show,
punch-drunk,
I follow you backstage.
You smell like distance,
like light and heat,
like the city,
like escape.
My heart is an insect
beating wildly against glass.
I want to run away
and join your carnival.
My unruly hand
wants to touch your mouth
and your eyelids.
Instead,
I watch you leave.
The rusty sunset
written on your back.
Later, alone in the bath
I float, weightless,
pretending you'll come back.
Come back for me
and my crazy lying hand.
The hand that told you
I'm not from around here.
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