Back home, I lock my bedroom door
before Mom comes home from work, around seven.
She pops it open as if the lock did not exist.
Says, “The dog is loose again, broke the chain clean in two.”
Now we are dancing,
Shining like oil spills,
And beautiful and tender and heavy,
With curves curving and shapes forming
A geometric chemistry under the strobe lights,
Under the song. Our song. Our years.
Shaking. Coalescing. Screaming.
Oh God. Oh God.