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.