© 2010 Lyn Lifshin

TANGO

The tulips were blood, the

black pistols quivered.

Later I thought how

thighs scorch, hips have

their way in exotic languages.

Where there weren't any

words, what he left out

was more intense.

Thru velvet and leather, his

body a tongue. Whoever

heard of a safe tango.

I wanted my body like

verbs. Being strangers

kept the mystery vivid.

How could I not

whip my body in

an apache throw out,

as free as what I never say

except on paper. I

want our legs hooked, a

tango that leaves a

tattoo in my blood

that melts snow

no one can get thru

I KNOW WHAT HE WANTS

and I have to give it to him.

He wants the wildness of

horses without the horses.

He wants that danger, how

they rear. He wants their

power and beauty, their

cantor. He wants to move

as they do  on the dance floor,

wants the mustangs mating

dance, transformed.
How they rear and bolt.

Legs like knives

He wants the fury of

Cossack dances, wants

sexy poems, that electricity

when a thigh against a

thigh could lead to

more than a leg crawl

IN SOME BACK ROOM, EERIE PIANO PLINKING

castanets, tango rocks.

I roll into his arms.

swivel of hips, black

hair almost touches      

the floor in a back

turn. I want to be the

dancer whose fishnet

stockings and legs

hypnotize. I want to

circle his rotating

center of gravity,

let my hooked leg

slide up and down

his body and walk

away without

knowing his name

TANGO WITH THE AMPUTEE

it's a little like life with him:

shaky, unstable. He'll

crutch you to the door with

a grin that makes him

elegant as Fred Astaire. From

the start, his voice like

cabeceo, that eye contact

across the room, electric

even on a car radio. Who

could resist taking what is

offered. He tells you

there are things he can do,

how he can get closer

to you in ways no other

tango dancer can. Call it

the horizontal tango,

the milonguero under the

blue quilts finding rhythm

with another at the

edge of chaos

STALK TANGO

that's what he does

with his eyes

or is it hips?

He stalks the

beauties, the

ones with long

black hair, spikes.

Spiky hair

couldn't hurt.

Not the ordinary

stalker. He flings

you into him,

into the frame of

his body. He

frames you

in too many

ways. You think

he wants to

hang on, as

he keeps you

hanging on

but wants

to hang you

All work is property of Lyn Lifshin.

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