VERONICA ELECTRONICA

Funny running into you like this, heads

under the table in the chill-out room.

My face smears against yours as if it were

a glass window. You lay your throat in my

palm. I slide my tongue in your ear.

Everything smells like animal nitrate

and sweat and synthetic leather. As far

as fantasies go, this one isn’t bad.

Dance-floor darkness warps its hands around our

heads, tangles its fingers through our hair.

A kick drum shimmers down in my stomach.

We’re alone. We’re alone enough, I mean:

the club booths have swallowed up what’s left of

the surviving partiers, diving headfirst

in a bag. We smirk into each other’s mouth

when a kid falls out for the night, ding ding ding,

his bell’s rung. I’m pretty sure his fight’s done.

Nobody notices our frisson

and this show isn’t for them, anyway.

I’m not much of a singer. I still shoot

for the high notes because why not, ya know?

Personality counts a great deal down here.

And hey, maybe you’d like to try this out

in a place that doesn’t remind you of

stomach acid and beer? We can swap clothes:

see how the world feels in my bodysuit.

I’ll notice how the earth turns under your boots.

Here—try this on. Now give us a spin.

If you can greet each night in silk you should.

Everybody’s heavy metal until

a mesh of lace starts to feel all exotica,

until amalgamation starts to seem

like the only way to close out the evening.

Our darkness is pink. We sheathe and unsheathe.

My hands could be yours; that indistinctness

is our whole game, even when I can’t spell

your name. We lose track of who’s who down here.

I look one of us right in the eye. Not

bad. We’re so pretty. Pleased to meet me.