New Year’s Eve.

There are glowing lights
in the shape
of flowers, stars or
strings of spheres
strewn across veneered walls like
across imagined diagonals of rooms
lit up like lonely cities
where I’d rather be
on this day when
people meet
concrete tents, gauzy
like bubbles of champagne
flushing their cheeks
with a satisfaction
from the ordeal of waiting
for the tide to slow down
– it feels like standing dumb
with a net made from
the veins in my lungs,
as moments whizz by
like fireflies –

oh hi!
so, some obscure part of pop culture
told me
to wear a black dress
polka-dotted white or
a white dress covered in black dye
with little holes in it
-each thing has
its own existential untruth,
like me, for you –
tells me to search for you
in a black suit, tapping your feet
with expectation sweet
until our eyes meet
unlike us
but oh, we do dance
away without a word or a sorrow
to better tomorrows
and I watch other women with
supernovas pinned to the ends of
their slit
dresses and my throat
I wince,
as past times hit me like hailstones
hit parched ground
that thus remains parched,
pass time listening to
the ticking of heels
on the face of
welcome pain,
treaded upon,
I have your hand today
to shoo it away
I was supposed to have gotten over
this and you and trust
me I have, I have
seen so much gilt breath, warmth,
and locked palms in one room
that I know, I know
it spells impending
electronic glissandos
and I silently hear
hearts syncopate
and watch
torsos synchronise
to the frenzied rhythm
of want and get
get and forget
in those wishful songs
about happy people
into the present moment
like salt
in the strobe-lit air
-I am not content with us
dancing beneath the stars I see
in the fairy lights above me,
let us at least chart
the Big Dipper
with our toes
on the dance floor –
my poetry, you
do not deserve, but songs
you will always
to go?
as the dance draws to a close
and nobody
claps for us
-the applause is what you
always did it for
don’t you know that the curtain closes
soon after –
for the good time
I thank the wine
seeping in,
into the sunflower field
of my skin,
with the laziness of the raw South
-pluck one
or many, to make a wreath
and crown my head with, for

living things
are not meant to be
decorated –


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