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Tarantella
Siren Hand

The bartender swings the bottle over two glasses
set on the altar of  Friday night.
 Don't worry, you'll need this:
 this week has bitten you.
 Poison in, poison out, love
 
The communion rolls down my throat
to a choke point—
I brace for better against polished wood,
ask for another,
sweet lemon shot turning my mouth.
Shove a ten in the tip jar to a turned back,
sway to crusted velvet couch that's probably 
cradled too many lovers—
set seasick glasses on the low table.
We punch this week in the face:
 to your health!  One for the soul!
I slam one glass, hold my second; 
sweet lemon shot turns my mouth again
as I pass the liquor through a loose-lipped kiss
to someone who hasn't legally seen God.
 
 We don't dance,
   we pulse 
                    we free-form flow 
  into hours when 
                                      only the Divine 
                        would be awake,
strobing:
our shadows play on a gridded confessional wall,
stained glass chandeliers paint us holy.

Brick grit and decay fills our lungs, 
The Spirit reminding us of  our dusty return.
Driving bass smothers creaking floorboards
still saturated with Tampa tobacco
hand-rolled through the years



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into Gulf  salt and sweat, sour carpets,
stained shame of  a thousand weekend escapes.

We pulse:
Hear our prayer.
Hear our prayer.
 Hear our prayer—
 have mercy on me.