Jeffrey Ethan Lee (Boulder, Colorado, USA): "Night Out With My Sister's Contact Improvisational Dance Girlfriends"
I.
The deal—
I felt in my guts that something was up,
the way Jude led me in,
“you swore
you’d take off your clothes,
do anything we want…”
(pinching my waist)
“and we’ll enlighten you…”
(unbuttoning there)
“if you’ll just slip into this…”
and she handed me
a small black velvet dress.
(loosening lower)
“No, I’m not gonna—”
Carol measured meticulously
up under my shirt
“It’ll fit,” she burst,
(stroking my chest)
“besides, you’re a poet—
think of this as research…”
“Uh-uh”
(my buckle popped)
Carol’s bourbon voice was so hot,
“But I just took it off for you…”
(my ear caught fire)
“Whoa…”
“Strip.”
I should’ve known it was a trap
when my shoulders got stuck
halfway through, with most of the narrows
still overhead, and nothing below—
in the bathroom I gasped,
“Help! I’m trapped in this thing!”
They crowded in behind, and slowly
tugged down the sturdy, strangling tube,
and then the taping and shaping
of the slimy, squishy balloons.
Jude poked one, pushed the other and snapped,
“You see— you see
what we go through for you?”
II.
After he said, “Hey baby…”
“Hey baby yourself.
You’re making a fatal error,” I warned,
shouting over the authentically retro pop,
in a muscle-bound nylon shirt,
half open to fur and cheap gold chains,
he stared straight through,
Carol in my clothes
and Jude in overalls.
Jude challenged him:
“I bet my girlfriend here
could kill you arm wrestling.”
He sneered, “It’s impossible…
I may be a moron, but things like that
just do NOT happen.”
Jude chimed, “Well, you’re at least half-right…”
Then her eyes counted the seconds til he realized
he was being trashed (her sort of IQ test).
Oh no, his eyes were glazed
In soft focus, sticking to me like white glue…
Jude clasped my cheek and cracked,
“Baby, he’s smitten.”
“Don’t kid.”
“I bet his chest size is bigger than his IQ…”
My feelings were mixed—
I didn’t want to laugh,
but when she did the math,
“A forty-six plus four— for that deep manly shag.”
I was shaking so hard I thought
my balloons would pop.
Not seeing what was really shaking,
he stepped close and asked, full of hope,
“So, you wanna dance?”
“Sorry, I don’t dance with men
whose tits are bigger than mine.”
Finally, a frown, hostility,
maybe even violence in the making.
But Jude gently slipped her body up
against Mr. Rug and shrugged,
“Well, she tried to warn you—
she’s not a girl who misses much.”
© Jeffrey Ethan Lee 2005
The deal—
I felt in my guts that something was up,
the way Jude led me in,
“you swore
you’d take off your clothes,
do anything we want…”
(pinching my waist)
“and we’ll enlighten you…”
(unbuttoning there)
“if you’ll just slip into this…”
and she handed me
a small black velvet dress.
(loosening lower)
“No, I’m not gonna—”
Carol measured meticulously
up under my shirt
“It’ll fit,” she burst,
(stroking my chest)
“besides, you’re a poet—
think of this as research…”
“Uh-uh”
(my buckle popped)
Carol’s bourbon voice was so hot,
“But I just took it off for you…”
(my ear caught fire)
“Whoa…”
“Strip.”
I should’ve known it was a trap
when my shoulders got stuck
halfway through, with most of the narrows
still overhead, and nothing below—
in the bathroom I gasped,
“Help! I’m trapped in this thing!”
They crowded in behind, and slowly
tugged down the sturdy, strangling tube,
and then the taping and shaping
of the slimy, squishy balloons.
Jude poked one, pushed the other and snapped,
“You see— you see
what we go through for you?”
II.
After he said, “Hey baby…”
“Hey baby yourself.
You’re making a fatal error,” I warned,
shouting over the authentically retro pop,
in a muscle-bound nylon shirt,
half open to fur and cheap gold chains,
he stared straight through,
Carol in my clothes
and Jude in overalls.
Jude challenged him:
“I bet my girlfriend here
could kill you arm wrestling.”
He sneered, “It’s impossible…
I may be a moron, but things like that
just do NOT happen.”
Jude chimed, “Well, you’re at least half-right…”
Then her eyes counted the seconds til he realized
he was being trashed (her sort of IQ test).
Oh no, his eyes were glazed
In soft focus, sticking to me like white glue…
Jude clasped my cheek and cracked,
“Baby, he’s smitten.”
“Don’t kid.”
“I bet his chest size is bigger than his IQ…”
My feelings were mixed—
I didn’t want to laugh,
but when she did the math,
“A forty-six plus four— for that deep manly shag.”
I was shaking so hard I thought
my balloons would pop.
Not seeing what was really shaking,
he stepped close and asked, full of hope,
“So, you wanna dance?”
“Sorry, I don’t dance with men
whose tits are bigger than mine.”
Finally, a frown, hostility,
maybe even violence in the making.
But Jude gently slipped her body up
against Mr. Rug and shrugged,
“Well, she tried to warn you—
she’s not a girl who misses much.”
© Jeffrey Ethan Lee 2005
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