When Lucille Bogan Sings "Shave 'Em Dry"

I blush quicker than a school of blue jack mackerel arranging itself into an orb of dazzle to avoid nips and gulps from the dolphins who’ve been silently trailing them, waiting for them to relax. When I hear her growl—her scratch-thirst and giggle when she drops swear words pressed to wax—I can’t even look him in the eye when I ask him to give it a good listen with me. But he does, ever patient, and we both get a light bless of sweat on, a bright address that still maps us to each other after all this time. When I read him the lyrics, the pink of my cheeks is like the pink of an orchid mantis. Just when you least expect it, the pretend flower will reach out and snatch a butterfly from the air. When I say flower I mean how her song blooms in the cicada-electric Mississippi night. When I say pink I mean nectar I mean a long kiss good and sweet.