Shakira, you’re wrong, my hips
do lie. I hear your wicked song

on this fairy tale dance floor, alcohol
pixie dust swirling and I lie to
this man, his fingertips
telegraphing

a blurry desire in the uncharted
space between our bodies. I don’t

speak Spanish but understand
bailamos, the tambourine
need for movement against flesh.

Shakira, my hips aren’t
perfect but the gyrating path

from nape to navel is a road
map from Colombia
to Columbus.
I am angling to be

discovered. Between your pulsing
lovers-words I learn the lengths
of his body. He must know
by now how this make-believe
night could end:

my hair pillowed over his revealed
stomach, skin that was cool

shimmering warm to my taste,
my bare legs chaired over
his thighs, my hips
trying their

lies again and again, testing
their choices. There are endings
more satisfying than
happily ever after.