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.