The house lights dim. <br />The sun snaps on. <br />We hear the opening notes of ‘I Will Survive’... <br /> <br />Priscilla Peacock, <br />drag queen par excellence, <br />makes a spectacular entrance, <br />(teetering on three inch heels) <br />along the veranda railing. <br /> <br />She turns a glittering head toward us, <br />her eyelids dripping mascara. <br />Her cathedral train reaches <br />meters behind her - <br />a thousand jeweled eyes <br />glinting in the light. <br /> <br />Every now and then <br />she fluffs out her feathers <br />with the careless abandon <br />of a Marilyn Monroe. <br /> <br />Then, as the music reaches its final crescendo, <br />she wraps her wings <br />around her shoulders <br />and saunters off. <br /> <br />The young tree-ferns <br />watching from the front row <br />uncurl in erotic response.<br /><br />Alison Cassidy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peacock-story-11-priscilla-queen-of-peacocks/
