The Tambourine Against Your Leg

Your eyes are always drawn to the girl–
not the men with their button-down arms

buttoned-down to their curvaceous guitars–
but the girl with her head thrown back so

the music rises out of her throat like a sword
and her hands beat a rhythm on her thighs or

sometimes aglitter with a tambourine and so
magnetic you expect your fillings, your glasses,

your car, all the iron that makes your blood rich
and red, to gather up and leave you gasping,
take a long plane ride to find her gone.