Dreaming We’re E.M. Bailey’s Dancers
We call it Easy Does It, Bobby Timmons
tapping our ribs like black and white keys.
We sling our legs long to the floor like masts,
our bodies sails bending to a white-tipped ocean.
Whales rise between our arms, their throats blown open
like hats bottoms-up to the sky.
If they hear with their jaws, oh what a kiss must be
thumping like a tuba to the toes.
You whisper, Some whales have feet, as you swim
your hands through my hair, as you piano
your lips in the teeth of my spine.
Copyright (c) 2018 by Carrie Meadows. All rights reserved. Carrie Meadows grew up around leather workers, doll makers, quilters, and tall-tale tellers who taught her the importance of straight stitches and good stories. Her poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, North American Review, Mid-American Review, and other publications. She teaches writing at the University of Tennessee in Chattanooga.