She dances like the smoke rising from my cigarette
in a wig of small balloons, her back bending
to challenge the firmament her body pulses
towards, but her toes never leave the floor.
I’m the San Juan Mountains while I watch
her move, kneeled on by strangers
equating age with proof, deliberate thieves
because those rocks are the perfect shape
to fill the holes in their living rooms.
What could she and I know about
the grief of men and plate tectonics, of fighting
the spaces that keep pulling you apart,
when we are so stationary?
Jessica Guzman lives in Tampa and sells cameras at an electronics store. Her work is forthcoming in SHAMPOO.