By Zoe Frances Mulford
My girl keeps me dancing all night.
Listening to slow Texas blues ballads,
we move each other’s hips and stomachs and shoulders side to side while she tries to sing along,
and she sings and I watch
and I watch that mouth,
that mouth and those lips and oh God—
that tongue, man, as it hits her teeth
with a tenderness she used to use only on me,
I swear, even now after all of it,
I swear I’d still believe it has to be something holy, that mouth, those shoulders, and slow dance swings, somethin’ God brought the whole crew in on to create, angels and devils and all that
so it had just the right amount of
holy water saliva, sin, and nastiness.
And I’ve never been happier or on my feet for so long
or so fine
with sore souls in the morning. But still,
like some sick and dying dog,
she put me down so easily
and I haven’t seen her since.