Saturdays at the Club


The night you sat next to me
smelling of roses and old vinegar,
tapping the ashes off your
very long
like it had done something to make you angry,
I was thinking about leaving you for good,

and running off to Brazil
where I know no one
and can’t speak the language,
where the skies burst with rain
and the earth smells like lavender.

But you said, “Let’s dance!”
with such spontaneous
that I forgot to leave you,
forgot all about South America
until just now
when you lit that damn cigarette.

Originally published in Matter Journal, Volume 10: Village


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