On stage she’s a hot-roller blonde—
legs ribboned to the ribs, tights bound
to rip, punch-red lips, pipes like lightning
kissing the back seats on the mouth. I mean
glam. I mean the men proposing after
the show are just her Tuesday night.
This sweat-slick music bar is packed
with writers horny for slam poetry.
If you think poet and idol don’t match
you haven’t heard her describe desire:
whippet-willed and foaming
at the mouth. She sprinkles magic
verbs over the shiny tops of our heads
and we hold out our tongues to catch them
like windswept acid tabs. I’m high on her
dime-turn swing dance, all shimmer and clack,
arms lassoing over my head and hurtling me
like cosmopolitan smack. My hot
blooded magic mirror. We had lunch
once and it never ended. We’re still
trying to squeeze our girlhoods into
stiff crinoline dresses. Learning to
curtsey and cut apples into tiny,
demure swans. Above the rouse, the
stick on stick figure crowd, stage lights 
scatter off her sequin top like the great
disco ball at the center of the universe.