Scorpio, he said, in a voice
like a Mariachi band hired
to woo. We laughed
because it was festival and
because everything that month was
fuse-lit fireworks, spaghetti-straps,
and the scent of shoulders,
hot and sticky and coconut.
That cobbled street was thick with people,
harsh-voiced macaws adjusting their plumage,
handing tickets to another show.
We didn't need theirs.
We had hearts like the
trombone unicyclist, like the
seven-colour lazer, like the glitter-copter
that rained Christmas in our hair. We had
kisses. We had thirty-one days and
we were electroluminescent Scorpios,
feet bound for dancing.
We were our freakshow and
we wooed ourselves.