At the stoplight of Charleston and Maryland
a man cranes to fondle your filament.
I watch your glimmer shock for the first time in decades ache at the recognition of touch
after that longtime going dark.
But you seem to tell me, collapse
is just another way to take
your sweet time
to rust in the intimacy of filling
your own space.
Teach me how to be vacant of noise, to stay still
even with men sleeping outside my walls.
How to change hands over and over but keep
my heart from liquidation.
Behind that curtain of Rocky Horror
and 25 cent matinees
is your sunbaked sensitivity.
Born in a shortage of wartime steel
they gave you Douglas fir for bones, later set ablaze under your voice to empty out.
I, too, want to cave in
on my assumptions, my reluctance to shed performance for the naked concession of spirit.
and besides, we both know by now —
the future is a midnight curveball.
Go on girl, you put the rest in restoration.
Tell me it’s only after the urgency of intermission
that the show can really go on.
The light’s changing now, tell me, how to begin again,
to belong to my own body
even while they mosh on my doorstep.
I’ve always been a sucker for the cinema of neon.
Teach me how to hold out for more.
In the summer issue of Desert Companion, readers can enjoy the winners, runners-up, and honorable mentions of our 2023 Focus on Nevada Photo Contest. In addition, we present our first-ever nightlife guide, the best locals spots for dancing, laughing, lounging, and rocking in the country’s most entertaining city.
Yesco Checks the Lights — for the Huntridge Theater
