It is not about holding her perfect,
just so, in a prescribed manner,
but rather, can you slowpour your breath
into one another’s hips
and clefts, while swaying?
It is the mutual pressing
of scars together, a controlled
friction that teaches your hidden
wounds to sing, raising
the pitch of tenderpink
to soprano, exploding shells
of outworn scabs
until the cadence is one of
melting. How to begin?
Take her hand,
lock your gaze with hers,
and simply ask: May I have this dance?