There’s a woman dancing. I wish she wasn’t – it makes the memory cliché
Or perhaps I am the woman dancing palm against the lumbar notches
Thumb highest, splayed fingers
somewhere waist band fingering
She wishes she wasn’t – such a cliche. Dancing being toe to toe
I don’t feel anything except
The touch of someone dragging me
into the wet bitumen air
We’re twenty three, we always wraith this strip, no one lives there yet
And the balls have full set sticky floors
I can smell kerosene. I imagine
someone facedown in this shimmering.
eleanor j jackson 