Mary J. (Upswing)

The booth had a door & the table had a door & the cup
had a door & the darkness had a door you fell right through,
you song in the head of a heathen. Someone had
penciled your skirt, someone had lengthened your legs,
someone had softened your bangs. & someone had drawn
a mic & a door with a stage light peering through. & someone flipped
the pages so your legs moved & your knees knocked &
though your stiletto heels bent they didn’t break or get dirty.

You were all motion & muscle moving with the logic of women
who float in teacups. Closed door, open door, cracked door, hidden
door, crate door, the door to heaven? You Yonkers lament, you
unlatched the little leaves fastened around your ankles
& swished your way to the surface, a song in your mouth,
a pattern in your hair. You breath in the break when we swim.