Saturday, November 17, 2012


We waltzed across the surface of the cracker,
stepping across the stones of salt, cautiously skirting the holes.
You and I, tiny Fred and miniature Ginger.
Your black toes gleamed, your construction paper tux was immaculate.
My gauzy gown furled and unfurled like a morning glory,
clinging to my curves. There was cellophane stretched
across your open mouth and when we smooched,
my tongue smashed against the barrier of smooth plastic.
All four of our hands were shoved inside a single pair of kid gloves.
Arthur Murray would have been proud
of his pupils shrunk to the size of cake decorations.
 Foxtrot, cha cha, samba, quadrille;
we danced them all across the cutting board,
our countertop dancehall lit by the orange glow
of the stovetop spirals, and at the end of the night,
when we climbed back up into the cupboard,
we fit together perfectly; one of us the slot,
the other the flap inserted to close the box.

No comments:

Post a Comment