Words off the Dancefloor

1.

Gambler’s Carousel

I definitely had a mother.
She was March, a Mona Lisa, a balcony by the seaside in November.
I’ve always had a mother.
She would snatch the playing cards from my hands — nobody loves a gambler.
Shuffling a smile above the stove when I cooked her flowers,
terrifying that boy for that wound in my neck.
I’m certain I’ve had a mother — she didn’t like music but she bought me books.
I never saw her crying, except at the carnival of 1996
in front of the carousel.
She must have had one too.

2.

Death on the beach

Forgetting about death,
I swore to always wear summers
and drink Afternoons
until you finally
decide the right song.

3.

Childless Parents

She and he were childless parents
of that spoiled little doubt—
fed with songs instead of bread,
and looks instead of milk.
They must regret it, you might think,
but they would die if it were to leave.
All kinds of games for her till dawn,
yet stood in silence when she asked for more.
They tried to pass her into safer arms—
of loving strangers—but she wouldn’t hush.
She cried and cried, she drove them mad,
until she grew into a tameless certainty.
Now, she’s the only thing
for which they breathe.

4.

Ready for spring

No one has ever hung fire for spring as much as I—
I’ve got one faulty eye, and I can’t stand
how little blossoms last, licking an ice cream…
…the past, the now, the lust about—
Petals are not wasted on the ground
if you come walking around.
Where are you now? How does it feel?
Can I just kiss you in your roots?
I wear my boots and I get out—
I want to shout—oh, how I long to scream:
“One more winter, and I’ll be
ready to dance, ready for spring

5.

The Breakwater

And so—
I’m made of waves,
and your sand is hot and filled with sharp rocks.

Still,
I always leave a bit of seabed in my wake
for you to steal.