Dancing the Blues

You were swiggin’ Jack,
growlin’ Blues burns
in my belly; I knew then you
were a man I’d dance with.
A man who’d put Tom on the juke
and grind into me through the gravel
of his voice.
You rolled up your sleeves,
showed me tats and scars
from fights with loved ones.
I leaned into you, pressed hip
bones into groin, told you I’d make
no promises, but the dancing
would feel good.
You hesitated, said my hips
felt like another needle
engraving your center.
Your heart sounded like a motorcycle
gunning. My blood warmed
to the whiskey.
We were mixed drinks, making blues
on the dance floor.
I pressed harder when you whispered,
Baby, me and you were never strangers,
Baby, me and you were never strangers.

Christa Mastrangelo - Christa Mastrangelo used to be a wandering gypsy, traveling to the beat of her own jazz drummer, until her husband and baby daughter wrangled her into living in West Virginia, where they own a little bistro. Now, she uses her MFA degree to describe wine to wayward diners and the sky to her little girl. She taught college writing and literature in her old, crazy life. Her work can be found in Bohemian Bridge, Sans Merci, Click, Arsenic Lobster, The Florida English Journal, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and The Blue Ridge.