Summer 2006

 

 

 


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that girl in the turquoise top
Matt Spillum

In the simmering after-rhythm
fresh from the dance floor,
I watch the room collect itself
from the whirlwind we carved.

A different dance, no trays of glass
no menus skirting wine bottles now.
The question is “ready?”
not “what do you need?”

There is a whisper trickling down
my ears and I ease my head to hear.

“Man, that girl with the turquoise top…”

Yeah. It would be easy to say
it was in the admiration of another
that I discovered you. Easy
to say that the constellations
of your gliding form and hazel eyes
made that crucial transit only in the light
of the moment.

But I’ve seen you dance and weave
before tonight, seen the turning
trail of eyes in your wake. You make
an impression as you move.

As we wound off into our separate nights
of motion, sweat and light, I
tried tracing a connection between
smiles and grooves, one thought
echoing in my head.

“Man, that girl in the turquoise top…”

It isn’t the same as spiraling with strangers,
not as though I don’t know you.

And tomorrow, we will whisper
sweet nothings of cheap
commerce, safe in the knowledge
that nothing has changed.

I hide behind the drumbeats and you
flee within cocktails. I fear no rebuke
but the slap of cold. I can walk it off.

But, man, that girl in the turquoise top…

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