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Bop: Bop
a man who loves assiduously will be guillotined by
grief
Ekundayo Ernesto Mercer
you can’t go on thinking nothing’s wrong
Drive The Cars
if I could learn the duende of the dance, things would
be different.
I could palm her arm like a rein, give her instruction;
for once:
go that way, girl/ spin over there/ come here/watch
my feet work.
but all I can do is glare from this barstool, pour fire
past envious teeth, see
her sway for boys, sashay for girls, share the checkered
floor with everyone, but me.
my arms hang heavier each day they’re absent her
hallowed waist.
you can’t go on thinking nothing’s wrong
whoever said that pain was sweet never saw his love
smile at another man,
never saw prayed-for eyes follow a woman past
congas and strobe lights, clapping hands and finger
snaps.
in this place, a stranger’s bump is a showoff’s excuse
for a spin,
stutter steps in line with the crystal shimmer of a
cymbal’s cascade.
in this place, no one can hear my heart crack lightning.
if only I’d have danced anything that day her lips
touched mine, but my need
was as clumsy as my desire, and she spun from me like a
cape.
who’s gonna drive you home tonight?
you can’t go on thinking nothing’s wrong
even when she’s close, my limbs can’t bring her to
orbit.
fools forget gravity can’t hold angels and dancers.
I need spinning charms to mirror her body’s melisma,
burning oils to mimic her scent.
I blame myself for these artless legs, my slue-footed
fumbling.
on the street, music fades, night’s tar cools ankles,
congeals souls.
rain trickles from rooftops, the curb's gutter rhythms
remind me I have none.
a man who loves assiduously will be guillotined by grief
a man who loves assiduously will be guillotined by grief
you can’t go on thinking nothing’s wrong
[Note: commonly called ‘hand-dancing’ on the east coast,
‘bopping’ is the name in the Midwest.]
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