Under dim lights and a pop song, they shuffled in a circle around
the reflected platform in a basement dance bar.
Their arms collapsed around their bare stomachs.
Their eyes fixed on the scraped metal floor.
On the stage, angels with no names in black heels hunch their shoulders
and shrink into the shadows.
A bell sounded, someone entered, anticipating.
She stepped forward with a required smile. Her knees shook in the spotlight.
She could be Diana. She could be Rose. She could be Mary.
Tonight, she is someone’s sin.
Tonight, in bed, tucked and neatly done, she will permit him chaos.
He will tremble in her world and make her forget herself.
A moment of fault disguised as love, only one would remember:
that she was desired not as a name but as a number.