Dancing Fools

In a house with no doors we lie
on the floor while the ceiling
whirs vigorously above us.

You pull me up, furniture vanishes,
and we gyrate through a bare room
to no music until we’re stiff
with longing and the landscapes of
our hearts collide.

When we twirl past the window
snowflakes fall in bizarre patterns:
a fruit tree; a sailboat; vigorous,
indecipherable words detonating
in the inflamed night.

When we tire of dancing we lie
back on the floor, our bodies inching closer
until we become indistinguishable,
our skin fusing, our hearts
thundering against the floor.

Outside, the stars spark and erupt
and snow falls backward
into the sky.

Catherine Friesen (they/them) is a queer and non-binary writer, editor, sometimes illustrator, and all-around nature lover living on the side of a mountain. They majored in psychology and creative writing in their undergrad and are currently working through art therapy grad school. When they’re not reading or writing, they can be found baking cakes, singing to their plants, or getting lost in the woods.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.