I Get Lifted Oh
A poem for Sunday
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.
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