Ninety-Five

i have salsa hips
swaying sensuously, my body is bracketed within 8-beat flashes,
skirt twirling and heartbeat undulating to the same rhythm,

hands delicately placed on shoulder and back, feather light,
the air molecules between the contact of hand and shirt
speaking loudly, louder than the
flamboyant music we are trying,
clumsily, lovingly,
to match our feet to.
smiles staring straight
spicily over shoulders-
this dance requires no eye contact, just lead and follow,
for once we are timeless-
we could be in L.A., sevilla or even, yes,
here-
counting our steps under our breath over these shiny new
hardwood planks
and trying our best not to feel the
jalapenos and blush tomato passion
emanating from the speakers
and finding their way into our muscles
as we run dance through thoughts, silence and
the unsaid poetry of salsa