Dancing In Kitchens

This shuddering heart-throb. This 11-pound earthworm. Warm, with fat skin in tiny bundles. Eyes swimming for clarification, The gleam in them like lighthouses In search of just you. Her arms cling sloth-like around my neck. Her legs pump and jostle for position. (For what? A better view over the left shoulder? I tried the right now and again. She hated it. So left only now.) Like this in low-lit kitchens, we dance. I dip and slide with this big fleshy spider While it emits piggish grunts. She burrows endlessly into my collar bone, Dying to dive back into daddy's DNA For something left behind. The Infant Paleontologist, Desperate for discovery. But she won't find anything. She never does. She always falls asleep too soon. I'm too good of a dancer. (For now, anyway.)