Amber Goodwin

Closing inward, your warm hand draws my wrist, where
nails impress purple moons on papery pressure points .
Your heady spin pulls me from the room,
silent and delicious,
into a whirl: a sinking, helpless boat
whose sailors have long abandoned it.
But in some pools we would happily drown.
A wild, waltzing galaxy:
spinning until sickened faces melt and candles glare.
Heartless conjurer of swirling dust-
what tricks keep us dancing?
Trapped in the smarting gravity,
With your two steps forward and mine back.
You lead.


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