3 a.m. in a parking lot. Engines hush
and hold their breath for her debut. A tour
en l'air, an assemblé, the ballerina
twirls from the heavy beating of electric
bass to the quiet humming of the night.
She curls up like a baby in the womb,
tides running high and low. Her head flows in
a pool of bubbly sprite, baptized by a
sweet mix of vodka and pink juice. She looks up
at me: “Just give me five more minutes please!”
The night shines bright above her. I tell her
to let go. A river flows out of her,
with lumps of jelly and remorse. Through pale
lips and furry coats, dividing the lot
into half, nurturing both continents as it goes.
And when she drains herself of such creations,
she falls into my arms, whispering her
affection to my ears. “I’m never doing
this again,” she says. “There, there.” I brush her
hair and let the whiskey-scented lies go.