Castrato

Clipped roses float from the crowd and drop at his feet.

The ladies in velvet seats are weeping,
a lump between each lung from
a glass shattering high B-flat that
reaches them like a butcher would
claw for a sharpened blade.

He remembers the milk-bath; his mother's breath,
the last woman to clutch the nape of his neck;
blood bubbles from the empty wound
curdling in orange at his throat.

One thousand hands
collide and separate; applause.
A thousand crying eyes, in pairs.