Kristian Hoffman Follow

It's heaven sent, this miracle soprano you employ
That makes an angel of a boy, earthbound.
My soul took wing upon the sound.
I guess I still can't face the implications of this gift.
There's something pagan in the lift -- airborne.
And why should soul from flesh be torn?

That's what it costs to buy a note so pure and high
and so divine: no sex in heaven.
The bottom line: no sex in heaven. Where do I sign?

Then came the man whose eyes professed the love that we had sought;
a love that's never to be caught or held.
Some ancient pact can't be dispelled. What's the surprise?
The storied sacrifice is often told: that this perfection must be cold,
and hard -- where once we joined by scalpel scarred.

What gimpy God aflame with jealous rage decreed that you
Like him must be unwhole; allowed to yearn?
But if the need that you profess is once returned,
You slap it down! (If I should ask, and I always ask.)

I guess I still can't help the sickened impulse to admire
the score that this castrati choir translates
that soothes as it emasculates.