brook house 3

By Jenni O’Rourke

“You’re gonna have to sing me the words,
I don’t know this song.”

I don’t know what your breath
on my face means anymore
But we dance like eighth graders who escape
to the corners of the cafeteria:
no one’s watching.
Shoot whiskey, touch zippers, tug drawstrings.

Dance hall crashers who worship Moz
bump into our beers.
No volunteering information
surrounded by old movies and
plastic disco floors. Huddled together,
arms lacing like two way braids.

No longer can I translate your moves:
Adapt and calculate them,
to make hands on hips
mean something.

Like the egyptians transcribe
hieroglyphics onto old lovers’ walls
like sophomores scribble on
state school bathroom stalls,
you say:

“Lyrics baby, they’re just lyrics.”

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