I become the inside of my palm

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I become the inside of my palm when we dance,
It’s warmer there.
I can jump back around and look through the eyes,
Keeping distance and time,
I can be normal.
“Your name,” I’ll ask.
“Rose,” you’ll say,
How long?” I’ll ask.
“Four months, today!”
But the conversation dwelling while my concentration drowning on,
1,2,3, fade.
1,2,3, fade.
Imagine meeting you at a Tango Parade.
But all I am is salsa,
All there is, is salsa.
Hot piquante salsa.
My hand swelling, the numbers mixing,
All the perspiration keeps my hand to your sides, sticking.
The beating of your heart gently vibrates the part
My hand cups.
It sucks right now to be my left hand leading.
1,2,3 shimmy!
I turn the other cheek; go deep.
My right knee pressing toward your personal territory,
Stepping into your fresh authority,
The Cuban ‘shimmy’ makes the salsa unquestionably sexy.
“Ah!” you utter.
“Definitely.” I say without a hint of a stutter.
Ba! Da. Da. Daaaaa (a rhythmic change)
Ba! Da. Da. Daaaaa.
My feet miss a beat,
Where am I?
Ba! Da. Da. Daaaat’s tango!
Where am I?
Ba! Da. Da-da-da-da!
I am no longer the inside of my palm, but in the veins,
The suicide part
shooting through the forearm,
the armpit,
the chest hair,
round the heart,
choke my throat,
my nostril bite,
my breath catches in my eyes,
the patterns clear,
“Ah! I gasp.
Silence.
Applause.
“Thank you, Rose.”
“No problem, dear.”
“That’s four months of tango, I presume?”
“Bingo.”

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