She leans into my body. 
Hotdance enters my stiletto heels.
“Teri, is that you?” she asks.

Her eyes insist I must remember how to
bandage raging arms
stitch emptied eye sockets
dam up blood rivers
wipe the spit.

She waves her thin arms into the night.
Timedance slows me in its coopered circle.
“Teri, is that you?” she demands.

Her hands steady me as I
lift the jack-knifed torso
shift the limp penis
soak up the soup of urine
stroke the crusting skin.

She breathes her words into me.
Slowdance spears me to the hardwood boards.
“Teri, is that you?” she whispers.

Her voice requires me to
hum the fucking Beach Boys
lie in the knuckles of that one thin sheet
reread Siddhartha
accept the sweat of her hand.

Nodance slithers down my aching spine.

BELOIT POETRY JOURNAL
THE OTHER SIDE OF SORROW

%d bloggers like this: