When I see
my former self
lost in a dangerous dance—
eyes closed, hips swaying
without a sound,
knees slightly bent,
the same song playing
for the eighth time that night—

I rush to my current closet,
summer clothes not yet rotated
to the back so late
into October,
plan my attack.
I can still revenge dress
in all black
with black leather boots,

vicious vixen lipstick
(remember lipstick?),

a haircut even shorter
than my 25-year-old one.
She may be a sturdy little scull,
but now I’m the oar. She may swoon
and run faster and farther,
but I still float.
And these days and nights,
I go further.