Masks

Masks

It is a rainy Purim, so I’m blasting

Beyonce while the hamentashen grow golden.

I wonder, “Who really runs the world?”

Ms. Knowles squawks from my bedroom boombox: “GIRLS”

but I am not so convinced.

Surely, we have come a long way

since Queen Vashti was executed

for not obeying when a liquored-up

Ahasuerus beckoned for her to come dance naked for all his pals.

But have we? A few weeks ago,

a leotard-clad Beyonce gyrated for the

drunken Superbowling masses. Blew

the fuse box on a Super Dome

with her wiggle and screech. She is no Vashti.

She is an Esther, panting for the king’s approval.

Whispering sweet nothings through

an amazing sound system to get her way.

I am creating my own problems, perhaps. Falling

into a domestic trap of clean towels and baking. 

I wanted to be Vashti, but the mask of Esther

is creeping softly over my rouged cheeks. 

No tri-cornered hat can save me. The gallows

may not swing for us single ladies, but Beyonce

has us all waving our hands in the air like smoke.