I play marimba on your rib cage

while you whistle through my thighbone.

We click clack up down escalators.

You rattle around me

whisking your skirt from side to side

as if to fan the flames

my feet stamp out.

We rub our pelvises together,

shilly-shally through lingerie

locking our bones in a romantic puzzle,

your hips around my neck.

Who can say this was a man

and this was a woman?

My bones love your bones.

And when I am rich enough to buy skin for you,

I will stretch it over your bones

like paper over a kite.

What a pair we will make,

strolling the avenue in the evening--

me in top hat and tails.

You with your skeleton of blue fox

slung carelessly over one shoulder.

From "The Flying Garcias" by Richard Garcia. (Pittsburgh: $19.95) 1993 Reprinted by permission.

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