Why Mormons don't dance.

He moves beside me
Churning his hips in the
Ritual dance.
Rhythms throbbing through
My bones.

With his wooden drumsticks
He pounds a staccato
Jazz beat out.
My cymbals quiver as they await
His brush.

Membranes tautly stretched
Across a framework of life
And tissue.
We watch the pulse vibrating
My wrists.

In a sweating flurry of arms
Hard driving bodies thirsting for
Wet tastings.
It's over too soon to learn all
The steps.