Strictly speaking…
…her shoes let them down
five inch heels and that soft kid leather
in come-fuck-me red.
Were they ever
really a pair?
He with his polished Latino click
hers a scarlet asymmetric slit
with a temper to match
his a spandex sparkle
and the macassared slick
of his Lugosi thatch
She didn’t fall, merely tripped
on his slippery charm
and her own indecision
lost her footing
gripped his arm as they took to the floor
in their downward collision.
She felt a smack from the back
of his left Cuban stack.
She’s had enough.
Through the crack of his dislocation
she remembered old scores
lost marks
humiliation
The last he knew was her impatient sigh
and the crushing sight
of her restless stiletto above his eye
the mocking cry
the samba siren and the boys in blue
(what-the-foxtrot-tango?)
lights on full
Paso doble
torero mujer
and one dead bull
MT Taylor was a librarian before retiring to Glasgow. Her work has appeared in The Glasgow Review of Books, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter’s House, Northwords Now, The Lake, Under the Radar, and Poems for Grenfell. She has four children who still talk to her, and she still interrupts.
