Datura in the Void

or Winehouse upstairs by the band on the dance floor
everyone turned their chairs to watch—
white tablecloth.

Behind was room to waltz with you
hand in hand
down to do what we talked of with our eyes
when time was tangerines we peeled for the
flower lady, Linda,
(the only art that got onto the ship)
down on the first deck.
It got through the roof in a leak
and she discovered the source just this evening.
Who else would?

Us, under the spell of it and the taboo
of being seen together, both soaking-wet rained on
coming back from delivering her plants to the freezer
with their leaves of blades, at least four or more
paces nearer to where we would perform the act
together
at the bottom of the ship,
right side of the girl’s room,
in the part we call
the void.

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