Bless you for believing when I said I’d backup danced
for Paula Abdul. Bless your sister, who barely arched
an eyebrow when you, all awe, shared the story I’d spun.
New kid in town, I invented a past to shimmy
my way into your skinny, strawberry blonde, hip-hop
heart, to smother that other history: the hustle
of my mother, the twelve steps of rehab, the shuffle
from one home to the next. This fiction, the only sway
I held, I ran it into the ground, choreographed
our dates so you’d never see the shed where I slept, shook
off your requests. In your room, I’d crack open the rock
of my lie, show you its glittering insides. You’d grind
against that jagged part of me, honing your own slide
into a new life, where you’d ditch your sister’s place, swirl
around a pole, your hair dragging the ground when you’d flip
upside down. Or that’s how we’d imagined it. I skipped
out after the night you dialed the music up loud, turned
a pirouette, remnant of childhood lessons, and dipped
into an arabesque, leapt, reached for me as you whirled.
Bless you for never mentioning how I stumbled, dropped
my clumsy feet beside your fleet kicks. Bless the rhythm,
how you got lost in it, radiant, while I got down
on my knees, numb and bruised, and prayed for a truer tune
to sing to you, for a tongue brave enough for the blues.