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for CC

 

when I pretend I am your comb, I
lean in your doorway, leave the light on
to let you see me reddened in
a shaky grin—admittingly

embarrassed in your crystals and
your folds
, your ballerina tone
following mandible radio
in your windows, in your floor

an entire dimension of motion
cast upon me like barber fingers,
balancing on ivory tiles
like an entire set of chess pieces

wavering on a single square, this
is not about the capture
it is about positioning
and mine is sliding like vinegar

down the prongs of a whisk into a
fisted net of walls and light,
windows, corners, the edge of your bed,
the edges of your knees, your waist,

eyelashes and erected frame
laughing softly and waiting
so I turn out the lights and rise
to the balls of my feet

naked in the new dark
negotiating the floor’s directions
without accident, we dancers like to
take the long way around sometimes

reaching through the scenery on
our way back to each other’s edges
eagles and angles
, oily hairs
we dip patiently
                                 , and turn

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