Silverfish Tango

They dance teardrop bodies on asphalt, in black rain, the gentleman

holds the lady’s frame—breath mingles. he takes a step forward,

she takes three steps back. thrown across the room, the lady cracks mirrors,

picture frames, a stained-glass lampshade.

silverfish dance the tango beneath a broken faucet. the lady serves

dinner on the bathroom hamper while the gentleman pushes

through arms to tear pages of her phone book. he snaps a spine,

peels the paste that holds her friends together.

slow slow the gentleman backs his partner into the bedroom,

dresses her in boys’ clothes, flannel shirts, caps she tucks into.

quick quick slow, the lady bends her knees, ties construction boots—

thick yellow shoelaces she trips on.

they act like newlyweds in front of work buddies, feed each other

cheese and pepperoni pizza. the lady sits on the gentleman’s lap,

he demands a cold beer—she pops the top, pours it over his head.

he reaches for the lady, she takes three steps back.

at night, she turns on lights, silverfish raid the pantry, dance on

spilled wedding rice. she cries at the beauty, tragedy of her young

marriage. the gentleman places both hands around the lady’s neck,

slow slow quick quick slow—squeezes.

his mother often asks why they have no children. the lady thinks

of what is kept under the bed, takes three steps back, folds her

body over the gentleman’s arm like a V-J Day photograph, opens

her mouth to asphalt, black rain—swallows his secrets.