Waltzing Lesson

What it comes of is hunger or sickness, 
two points of view,
this need of one body to touch, to lock in and move
in rhythm with a another body, 
rubbing thigh on thigh, 
right hand on the back of your partner
with pressure guide
each move and direction taken;
when the music rests, 
let go without reluctance or loss, 
shake hands and move
on to another encounter, another face
that in style and movement is different,
in strength and grace
inviting adjustment and response;
so reduce the space
and sway like two elm trees in place
in a race with time.

For too much of my life I’ve looked back. 
Now I turn to face
your arms that invite my weight
and balance that weight with your own
creating tension. 
My feet and legs you direct. 
You compel my arms
to form a firm rail you can lean on. 
We walk through steps
as I inspect all your flavors, 
a child explore
the varieties of touch you offer
until all I hear is your music
and my thoughts speed up. 
I anticipate the end of the dance
and the hope again to dance it
even as we transit the floor, 
weighing risks and chances. 

So hold me close for this moment and for each you can, 
stand swaying for a time without music in a dance that feels
reliable and trusting as a friend while our old bones creak
and cast off the Mondays and Tuesdays, the endless weeks
of weariness and abstinence and loss, and sometimes speak
to each other from a distance on the phone, until alone
once again we stand holding tight to each other, my penis grown
against the softness of your belly, your candy tongue
sharp and strawberry sweet in my mouth as we climb the rungs
together of anticipation, with each other come to the end of the dance, 
being mortal, and the cold walk home.

What we need as our muscles decline
is a set of stairs
to a room where bedclothes are aired;
a place where time itself is kind and erases worry
up close when the lighting is dim.

Which is why we come
without words to our pillows and bed
and the safety net that was altar and refuge
for our lives,

where we offered sweat
and tears and the mingling of ourselves,
not without regret,
also gladly and accompanied by laughter.
The wine came after
and was red as the sun to our eyes.

Now bleached and worn,
we spoon our two bodies together
and wait for sleep, like sheep we hear people say,
like complacent sheep, 

still expecting to wake up together, two birds at dawn;
so lie, blankets drawn, hand-in-hand
to discuss the weather, our health,
anything whatever,
as we shed both loss and time.