Cindy Milwe
The Straight Guys in Dance Class
1.
Lewis was a horsey boy
with a mullet, from Queens,
jaw slack and dumb, vacant
as an air conditioner. And
no one knew if it was true –
that his night job was to sweep
the semen from the porn stalls
on 45th Street, wipe down the old
equipment with a dirty dish rag.
But I remember how I soaped
and showered after we got matched
in our “partner class,” danced
the adagio with his slippery fingers
digging into the small of my back
as I arched and twirled up high
near the caked dust of the ceiling fan.
2.
David was Midwestern,
the Merchant Marine
with a penchant for jazz.
Gawky and sort of gorgeous,
he wore his tights with sly pride –
all those years on ships
and finally this: all day
in class with skinny girls
to flirt with now and fuck
with later, long chasees
and jetes across the hard wood
to anyone who didn’t mind
his fierce, bold odor.
3.
Nick was Russian, handsome,
wooed baby ballerinas back
to his cave in The Bronx
and banged their bony frames
until the hair pins popped out
of their buns like porcupine
quills in a car wreck. Later,
we learned he was doing time
on Rikers. I am lucky not to
have fallen for his gap-toothed,
cigarette smirk, too dangerous
even for my suburban curiosity.
4.
Oh! How many times
I
could have died.
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