When I first learned
to dance (with a woman)
I forgot how to walk
(with a man)
I have too-tight
boots but I’m slipping
in my shoes.
Now I walk in a crater.
Drag black nail heads
and leather
into my heels,
try to fill this new
space with footsteps
and walk all over
(I’m feeling like my toes sink
and knees pop)
to learn how to push my step forward –
I joke about my bursting
out but really
it drops down deep.
I hate being soft.
I’m mushy,
pliable,
flowy. I mean,
How do I explain
red wine stained on
dark lips?
On loving curves?
On my hips,
your hips, On black hair
mixed with red?
Music clenches a lathe
and shock stabs
with a feather.
I point to one corner
and then the other.
I don’t want to drown, here,
on this glass-bottomed street.