Our Lady of Shimmy Shimmy Ko-Ko-Bop

She dances with the springy slinky curves
and high energy of electrical

wires, twisting in reflections and sunlight
full of purpose and shadows, pulsing with

untranslatable messages. She twists
like a cat, coos like a mourning dove. She

is her own rock band, her own blues. Her smile
could charge spaceships. She is not so simple

as people think. She tells me she was raped,
but no one believes her. Except for you,

she says, and my mom. After what he did,
she says. Do you think he chose me because …?

she says. Yes, I say. A brief moment of
silence. She tells the story in the guise

of a dark cloud, and she is the thunder.
She storms out. She tells me she is bi, but

no one believes her. It’s a phase, they say,
you’ll grow out of it. Why don’t the women

I like like me? She droops wistfully, graced
and graceful, a slim gerbera daisy

of a girl surrounded with petals, then
bounces, surging upward as if launching

herself, as if seeds, as if percussive,
as if ballistic choreography,

as if she’s a superhero sizzling
into space. You go, girlfriend, you just go.

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