Slow-Dance
Is it possible to gracefully lock
a flimsy bathroom door...
At the party, you smiled as you cocooned yourself
in confetti—as you cocooned yourself in
the corners of his smiling mouth.
It’s as if the caterpillar of white gauze
under your long sleeve
was a bad dream. But its procession feels
so stiff-legged, so marched
when your hands hover over—
its crusty like a hard, worn metaphor
sticking to filemot lines between the
sterile and skin. Some-
where along the star parade, they get ripped off,
and there’s no
pause—no declaration of a wardrobe malfunction.
The party continues as soft plastic
falls on your tired teeth—catches in the heat-
pressed fuzz/static of the strands along
your sweaty scalp. So, you ex-
cuse yourself,
careful not to ruin formation. Is it ever as
graceful as it
is in the TV shows? Is it as gleaming
as jelly when you crash into
every plaster
side along a swirling hallway with a
thundering mus-
ical thud; your theme song playing
over what’s hip? Maybe it’s superficial; synthetic
like the bright fibers of your sweater catching
each micro-
scopic splinter as you
slide down a door that smells of soap scum,
and hangovers; of hot-box sessions,
and strangers, and cold sunrises
before clocking in. At the party, you’ve
cocooned yourself, and con-
fetti isn’t young, or old, nor a script
to skim over. It’s the shock value
of slow-dancing
... with a razorblade burning
a hole in your back pocket (?)