Dancing In Paradise 

You lean against me
as we dance, the soft huddle
of our heads together,
our breaths clean steam in the blue
smoke, rapid, exhausted.
We mix margaritas, because
I like the name, a
woman you love. You're older.
I'm willing, drunk, unbuttoned.
You lead, peeling layer after
wet layer, a heap
of sweaters, shirts and precious
metals. Your breast is
slick with sweat, hands agile,
eels in glass waters.
When you scoop me up, I twist
in your lap, a thick
needle thrust through my tongue. Later,
you give me a reading list,
blank journals, your mother's
recipes. You take
what you need, knowing there's no
autonomy of the
senses, those five carnivores
in their own essential
food chain. What survives is memory,
twin jewels, the blade of
a pelvic bone. Instinctively,
we keep our eyes open,
ears keen, for marine smells,
salt, the plexus of light,
sound, water.

Published: The World in Us, St. Martin’s Press, 2000; QRHYME, #1, Summer 1991, Queer Nation/Chicago.