I Get Lifted Oh

we did not choose each other

on that underground Wednesday night

Harlem dance floor.

We were chosen

hearts sweated like rain,

smiles crackling their fire spit across

our language barrier.

We found ourselves in anthem

instinct on spin cycle: knee, washboard, tongue

spliced cross 12 inches of a spirit-filled

I Get Lifted, oh /

I Get Lifted, yes

house song

a juke joint east of Lenox Lounge

become a pop-up lion’s den stage right

of the dance floor; frot hands hung

to the top side of the table hunting

like pheromones of spontaneously combusted

paramours. Time lost and barely, barely found

I remember next. I do not remember

before coat check

and a train ride north

and an address I called home

and a passion felt like God and Sun,

primordial hot three-letter words

gateway

to Four. We tattooed ourselves lips-first

to the front door, the morning sun an elbow

prodding us together and apart—a part

together as we tried not to leave against

our will.