We add a lower case s to the capital of KIN: give body to the body of dancing. Warehouse becomes cathedral. Us, a mass, a mess. The roof lifts to accommodate mirrored balls. Lasers, lights, confetti waterfall. We oft oft oft to The Schumann Resonance. Wyrd and wired, we add a verb to the night. Doing is a word that does this. We have spoons to give, spoons to bend. Our ankles, awash in dry ice. Within rhythm, unearth memory of microbe and mountain. We are the in-between, liminal with limbs, grinning. The veins on our arms: roadmaps to arousal. Swollen for the show. Off with our shirts, our guilt, our hurt. If they make a movie of our lives, do not hire ScarJo to play these roles. Instead, resurrect our ghosts, let the screen fill with the ectoplasm of the past. A glimmer, a glamour, our love. This movement is a forest you can never cut down. We graft ourselves to the future. In another poem, Jill asks: “What do you wear, what do you take off?” The answer: everything, save for the glitter. How we sparkle inside ourselves. As we throb, we sweat wishes and unheard prayers: rest in peace, hate speech. Here, we unshackle the PTSD you have gifted our community: our fists clench around each other’s flesh. This supplication and servitude, this need and haunt. We cheer when the gay saints sing: Kylie; Annie; Sylvester. Records of stoned walls and a brick hand. Marsha smiles down on this gathering. As if the prestige in a magic trick, a drag queen appears, revels to reveal our reverie. The back-up dancers are either friends or past hook-ups. Gender is a con, a strut. We tear ourselves apart when the beat drops. Pyrotechnics add to the flash, the fever. If this is sin, then show us your God, blushing: Jesus is in the chill-out room, turning water into ecstasy. We all walk on air here. In the morning, we dial up the sun and ask it about the weather. We leave, adorned in the stink of sweat, stranger’s lips, the promise of another. Dawn is an augury, rising.