Lion Dance

Andy Sia

A dialogue between Head and Tail

There is the world that is and there is the world that comes flooding in, so color-filled and full of

          textures and lines and feeling: a cachinnation of fireworks.

From my view, the world is stoned-colored, kind of flat, and on occasion will cough up motes of dust that look so

          carefree floating about.

To-day I deploy the fur-trimmed and sequined lids over the paper eyes, I work the apparatus

          known as the “mouth”: How else am I to dispel us of the charade, Viewer, peel off the

          loveliest mask of you?

How to make sense of what isn’t there.

Perhaps there is nothing inside after all? Perhaps nothing birthed these legs, or is it that the legs

          came from elsewhere, discarded, nicked by some mysterious force that has taken up

          residence in the nothingness? Perhaps there is something all along — gears and springs.

Or really, it is just two persons hunched inside a lion suit.

Sometimes a heaviness pervades like a cloud, obstructing all there is — in the distance and above

          the static, a music faintly rings.

Let me move through the world in this small way, devout as an echo.

In the end, there is only the performance of one.

In the end, there is only the performance of one.

 

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