after the show (curtal sonnet)

I thank the drag queen as she leaves the stage.

She had perched upon a bar stool and,

amid abandoned corsetry, she’d said

that drag, for her, was an antidote to rage,

to ward off those who didn’t understand

that she was free and loved, while they’d been fed

lies about the people she called family.

But in this bar, a soft place to land,

I see her lift her chin and look ahead.

“Great show,” I say as she passes me,

“Thank you.”