Zumba's a Killer

Shed the bootstraps,
who needs laces now you've got a desperate hallway
under the influence of two toy guns
and your vague idea of vogue;
they're on their knees in the corner over there
yet you've set boundary field borders forcing them into new area codes
but you still want to be president of their Zumba club,
prevail into local history bought-at-a-Post-Office books
as, the woman who didn't give two fucks about anything,
always wearing boating heels in every picture she was surprise-faced in
yet, again, she'd only worn them once on an actual boat,
their boat- her boat in fact-
moored just off of Dunkirk because that was their dream they'd never dreamt of fulfilled by a salary she didn't know how she got,
her Drake Passage hips,
slipstream wind streaks for football club's worth of men, always warring,
and her makeup from the night before is less curated now and more a raw storm footage from the bridge of the Queen Mary 2
and she's screaming inside of the hull,
hating the weather
and the pull of everything bringing her down


and I'm no better.