by Sybil Wilen
Weighted by the coins that dangle from your hip sash, you chew up the floor. Hip thrust, figure eight – your abdomen curls in then out while your hips circle parallel to the ground, carving the letters of an ancient alphabet.
My hand flutters to my throat and rests there. Yesterday, we fought over breakfast. Stabbing eggs with silver prongs, you insisted your bedroom would look best blue. Splashing hot black coffee, I demanded red.
You turn, sending your hair in a gush down your back. Peering over one shoulder and then the other, you wink and roll your eyes. Your lip rises only on one side. Lifting your hip in tiny increments, you let it fall and then repeat with the other hip, bumping air out of your way.
The drummer, your husband, lays his palms one after the other on his instrument. Slapping music, he nods, his eyes trained on you. Zills click and clack and vibrate.
A noise, primal, pushes free from my lips and rushes for you. Together, we three dance, your body curls, zills flash in and out of sight. Dark hairs whirls, hips snap. Your ribs slide. My words circle you, counting vertebrae, rising higher and higher.
Two nights ago, we let our music lead us into your bedroom. Hands dipped into paint and covered the walls. Incense burned, filling our nostrils with Nag Champa. Three tongues strained against five sets of lips.
I am your student. I could not dance before I came to you. Today, you have not let me dance. I watch and lend my voice, tripping over your husband’s fingers that pull a beat from skin. You on the other hand can dance, and when you move, when you shimmy, I shake and can do no more than give you what I have.
My words rush from me and this exhausts me. I want to crumple to the floor, to run my tongue over your hennaed feet.
Yesterday, we had to clean the mess we had made in your room. Scraping paint for hours took a hold of me. I longed to stay there in your apartment hidden behind glass bead curtains, chipping away at amber candle drippings. Your home is so familiar to me, the sari wall coverings, the velvet quilts. I have knelt on the silk pillows to drink from your husband, but you did not know this until two nights ago.
I long to retrieve those words from you. Closing my eyes, I strain to see letters dance away, Z, then Y, X, and W. The letters slip over you, bouncing from your beaded breasts, snapping into words and then stop.
Midway between you and me, the words congregate and lose momentum. With a twitch, I turn toward your husband. His eyes are only seeing you. You inhale monstrously, growing within candle light. Coins fly from your hips; your toes burn the wooden floor.
Dust sparks in all directions as your eyes watch my words. Brown eyes with green rims choke my breath. My words dance back to you, mesmerized, and tip off of your gold headdress.
I move with my words to you.
Your hip nudges mine. I push back. Our breasts come together in undulation. My tongue finds yours on the dance floor and we trace circles together.
