Lightning's Dance Floor
by Ronald Wardall
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
From the beginning, having first been drawn,
then quartered, his mouth stuffed
with intimate bits of himself, and still disoriented
by the taste of his own geography,
he took her personally.
She, herself, full of brain-porridge and blood snot,
crammed as a mad man’s wallet,
quick as a dead tree fire, even with
boulders in her lungs and shod in manhole covers
swayed light as a child’s loose tooth.
She bred hope like a teenager’s tented sleep. To scratch
her naked back with the jagged line
of his name. She, rich beyond Midas in empty rooms,
bruised with goodbyes,
the sky-carved fist in Heaven’s face.
The Saracen blade of dreams, granddaughter
to a tailor’s scissors, rain-bright
the long night lines piled like black
panties round her ankles. She, deeply read in psychotic
shut-ins. Remorseless as the coffin beetle.
Catalogue of alone, cockroach-diamond, an unpolitic
honk of geese in dark suits, the Hudson’s vampire moon-
gowned, weighted like the gallows
for sandbag endings, devourer of visionaries,
She who, even bleeding, could dance the world
up and down the stairs, night’s red eye,
the silver wolf sweating with her tongue, the wind
blowing through him, labyrinth
of dragon teeth, star climbers’ womb.