GOD’S DOING

by Bradley Samore

is what you call us,
not meaning humanity
or you, me,
our individual existences,
but the unlikeliness
of us having met
at all. Kenny Dorham’s nonet

plays through your speakers,
pulls us off the loveseat
into the kitchen, the beat.
We salsa in our sneakers,
pause, lean in, seekers
no longer of our first kiss,
and you tell me this

is the perfect moment
for your red
dress. You run to your bed-
room, and in a minute
step out, the brilliant
fabric hugging your waist.
Your face

is more beautiful than in any photo
on your online dating profile.
I take your open hand, spill
a smile, and spin you back into
the kitchen, onto
the make-believe dance floor.
We salsa once more,

but a few moves in,
the song ends.
Horace Silver bends
time, slow-solo-pianoing
a rubato intro to the next tune.
When all the musicians play,
we hold each other, sway

to their rumba. Instead
of worrying about formal
dance steps, we enter a portal
to just us. You rest your head
on my chest. I follow your lead,
rest my chin on your braided
hair. Everything, wordless, is said.

                                                            for Yordi

Bradley Samore currently works as a technical writer. His poems have appeared in The Florida Review, The Midwest Quarterly, Thimble, and other publications. He is a winner of the Creative Writing Ink Poetry Prize. www.BradleySamore.com