quick mambo steps forward back:
mostly a matter of simple instruction
vuélvame, retrocede.

the inevitable collision
we spin we spin we spin

my knack for disappointing
rushes back to me now:

my mother chastising hiked up skirts and too much eyeliner
the teacher who watched me get into that monte carlo
nice boys made mean once i’d fucked their friends

this ache is comfortable and my own.
broken down and in and so,
i keep coming back, thirsty.

settled easily into safely cogged spinning,
my hands remember this song and
intuition becomes insulation.
destructive, and predictably so.

but then:

there are moments,
when every floating piece
settles to the bottom,

when i can blink twice and make
things crisp around the edges,

when i figure out this latest dance
hinges on you.

when you get tired of the kids and the wife,
when you need a new place to put your hands,
when your mouth is dry and i become potable,

i am the most willing,
the least expensive
and utterly inconsequential.

you are your own partner.

reality pokes me in the sternum
like an index finger

when i see you looking at her
like she’s something to eat

too.