A Domestic Dance

Their routine begins
like this:

Standing, with precarious
posture, hands’ thrust

They struggle, drag
each other around
the room.

She improvises, drives
a knee into his thigh,
they separate.

He grabs a handful of hair,
forces a bow, throws
a fist at her spine.

She twirls free, leaps
onto him, scratches
his tattooed face.

He throws her into the air
doesn’t bother catching her.

She lands, notices me watching,
and insists they’re not fighting,

only dancing.