When you dance

When you dance it's as if

you gather the music

into yourself,

into the softness

of your diaphragm and belly,

and smear it through your body,

along the long cords of you—

tendons, neurons, axons, veins

spine, lungs, bowels, hips—

and extrude it down the pipes of your lean limbs.

When you dance you keep your arms

straight by your sides, point and wag

and jerk your hands,

quiver your body like a zephyred leaf,

and stare at your feet, which you shuffle.

When you dance it's as if your legs

and arms

and eyes

are pulled toward ground

by the music's grand

unified force. In all my life

you're the only one

I've ever met

who dances

like that.

       From my chapbook 'q finger', PressPress 2011

q finger

I want to lock my face cams

on your chocolate-cake eyes

ski your hardline nose with my q finger

swipe your plush-ice mouth with my spacebar trackpad thumb

examine with my i finger

the precious folds and little faint hairs

of your pinna

trickle my j finger down the long line

from the left hinge

and my f finger down the long line

from the right hinge

of your jaw

to the sharp tip of your chin

and breathe on you like I breathed

on my babies.

Make that word

—'sensual'—

mean something.

Touch Typist has sent you a Fluffy Kitten

for Valentine's Day. Click to accept.

       From my chapbook 'q finger', PressPress 2011

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© Copyright, 2013, Janet Jackson.
All rights reserved.