The Gongs

Gongs of poor Indians in their tin shanty-town
accuse the brass band and banging rockets of our fiesta
honouring the Virgin who conquered them
while I would deflower their daughter
except that I'm impotent with shame
ashamed of my impotence too.

Gongs of tin or brass, distant lanterns like fireflies
summon me to carry out the rite,
the sacred ceremony
in which you'll be the gong,
the only one eventually,
me the strong stick to make you vibrate
over miles
over years.

But, my lovely golden gong,
I am too old
and my stick too weak even to dare touch you.

So, alas,
you will stay intact.
All the gongs will be quiet
at last,
waiting for you to exclaim.
Your golden mask will shine
waiting for me to come
but I won't even move.

The age, the tiredness,
the fear of gonorrhea
will halt my desire.

And there you will be,
golden and virgin gong,
unique your sound, extraordinary and marvellous,
with the very strange curse
of being unheard forever.

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