Disrobing Ourselves

"My body is a movement." That's what he told me.
Not a waltz, not ballet, not some union of steps
and sways, but a dance made of movements. He
spat at the air. It was the cold of the night that kept
him wrapped in a sweater, threads shrunk tight
from the rain. I remember he laughed as the fabric gave.
He escaped from his skin, and he danced that night
knee-deep in a fountain. I laughed as the water gave.

"Dance with me," he said. I wanted it
to be mine. To dance like that, to break
the atmosphere with waves and erratic
gestures, to fling rain at the sky. I would remake
my skin in the dark, spinning untamed. I took
his hand into mine, "Our body is a movement."