I am not Athena, but what has unzipped and stepped
out of the coat of her body, which now sags
on the floor. Let me grab you by the hand, lead you
to the stage, lift the coat, pinching its lapels
between my fingers. Let me invite you to slip
your arms through her arms, pull her legs
over your legs like wet jeans, stretch the hijab
of her face to your face. Don’t flinch when
the spotlight bats its golden wings around you.
Don’t you want to feel the flutter of bodies
against yours? Tuck their speckled plumes
into your top hat? Now, you may shake your head,
turn away, walk back to your seat, where the reader
before you has left a wad of gum, their playbill
splayed out like a dissected frog, the floor
tracked with footprints in the juice of tomatoes.
Please, I beg you, unskinned, the coat of her slouched
at my feet. She looks as though she has sighed
and collapsed, her flesh a heap of red curtains.
Wrap her body around yours. There are no viewers
in the balcony to nudge one another, butter
pooling around the bags of popcorn clutched between
their thighs. It is just you and me and this poem
pinned to the stage. I hand you the needle and forceps.