Slow Dance
by Sarah J. Den Boer

How to say more than lazy lids.
Some quiet ecstasy in the way

I mouth come. Headboard of plywood
and splinters under fingernails

like hot satin ribbon. We slow dance
at sunrise. Back-country shack

and nosebleeds at noon. Our descent
into indigo, elbows fierce as pick-axes.

There is so much to avoid. The freezer
on the front porch, hinges snagging my hem

and the buttons on your shirt. When the nail
pierced my cheek, only the tinkle

of bone wind-chimes, crackle of parched
quack grass. Blood a sticky necklace,

crusted in the creases. Everything tightens
when you are around. Searing breath

of berries and rum. Six steel strings stretched
behind blue curtains; even the brocade,

bruised and trampled by goats. Pummel.
Paper lanterns buzz and tear, beer cans explode.

My rusty bicycle with the velour seat, leaning
against the shed. Topples; rises. Topples again.

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