be where my people are / be where the pretty people are

tonight, I’m making a fool of my shame, not bodies. always thrown
by the weight of my own name in a room full of people who want
to love me.
             tonight, my knees are invincible
my balance is impeccable falling in love is inevitable.

mary mother on the dancefloor raises two hands and drops
them to her waist. angles her knee inwards and outwards, stirs her hands through the dust. swirls, wipes the back of her hand across her forehead. libations libations on our skin
at the bar –
all gold, all gold. skin tight and low cut

mary mother on the dancefloor two drinks, bright and overflowing
grinds through the chorus with her mouth downturned groove and
             tonight, there is no language
we do not understand. ambitious and sky reaching
hands raised and lowered to our waists all of us

scattered, then gathering reborn in wonder – a feat like nothing else like
rallying at 6pm on a Wednesday night for the chance to be held like
the dancefloor is a poem or
the dancefloor is the last streetlight or
the dancefloor is the last place i felt enough
all of us together

and The Bird needs saving again
so I raise my hands.