Catcalls

it took seven shots for me to dance barefoot in the snow.
eight for you to tell me i was graceful.
Your beer goggles never interrupted my rum song
and i  spun so fast i fell into your bed.
when we woke that afternoon as i whispered
"morning to you, my inebriation"
i found my feet trapped within the sheets.
not accidentally wound but wrapped like something precious.
the point-shoes of some primma ballerina i would never resemble

a few more afternoons and i became
your blue eyed replacement for cigarettes
breathed in with some hint of a denied addiction.
we became obsessed.
you with my ivory stretched over hip bones
and i with our fingers interlaced
they looked like piano keys...

before long you took the liberty of writing ballet on those fingertips
but i forgot to tell you,
sober...i can only salsa.
so you dropped my hand
and as i pitied the notes crashing stacotto to the floor,
i realized no one would be able to read us anyway.

now ive started to speak in anticipated apologies
and begging for silence i pressed my words against yours.
my mother always said i had diamonds on the inside
but when you kissed me you cut your tongue.
you are too squeamish for blood so have become
mute save for the complaints that some iris stole your nicotine.
it amazing to me how quickly music turns to silence.

soon other women will begin to lather themselves
in your compliments and your alcohol
while my claustrophobic hips sway without rhythm in the corner.

i had never realized that catcalls had a rhythm until i danced to yours,
skin frozen hard like ballet slippers.
but thats all that it was
catcalls,
skin,
and snow.