Amy Kinsman
don’t leave me this way
there’s a place at the bottom of my mother’s lungs
for the communards’ cover,
a belt, a shriek,
a hallelujah over
those high notes, the steering wheel
her dance partner as she sings,
her mouth so wide open
i think her soul might fall out.
when i tell her
her taste in music is pretty gay, she thinks a moment
then says i guess you’re right —
in my dad’s car the cd player’s
jammed full of stooges, bunnymen,
sex pistols,
but i remember timing the ride to church
in tracks of welcome to the pleasuredome,
at six years old,
holly johnson’s cackle rocking
my babyqueer bones,
an earthquake caught on record.
at that age,
when i pictured dancers, i left out the thinness,
how their clothes ate them up:
everyone looks pallid
under neon lights;
everyone shakes like the spirit’s entered them
in those disco cathedrals,
eats of the body,
(loves, loves, loves)
screams out their hymn
(don’t leave me this way)
(don’t leave me this way)
(don’t leave me this way)
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.