By Katie Kapugi
Whiskey in my glass–
tiny icebergs click to the deep beat
of some forgotten song that lures
the lusty to grind their hips,
to make come-hither eyes,
and writhe with shock wave skin-
every molecule pressured into
movement by uninvited sound waves
And how does one hold oneself…
comfortably?
Do not slump your shoulders:
Yet
even the mountains slump,
trembling in aftershock,
and change the contour of
what has been.
My stone bones ache for ground.
Do not cross your arms:
But
beneath this shield of limbs,
out here where bodies
matter most,
my solitude is obvious,
seen as a gesture of invitation,
and
I am waiting,
ever waiting,
for the eyes that do
not see a perfect mask
on my imperfect face.