Winters up here, prairie queers, are marked by a grit-veneer of road salt. It tracks in on our shoes as we crowd into the apartment to dress, a rime of mud at the door. Parkas over fishnets and chains, you know the drill. We'll see more boots at the gay bar tonight than heels.
Salt is a precious thing, you know? To send a signal from nerve to nerve, the first thing your cells do is open a channel to let sodium pour in, start the cascade -- fire. I'd like to think that's why we're so attuned to it, why the deer of my fieldwork jump fences and chew wires, risk standing roadside to lick it bare off the winter ground.
There is a cage at the bar, south of the dance floor, glowing red-orange. I think of sodium-vapour bulbs. Someone dear to me is dancing hands against the bars. Animal I am, risking roadside, I stand bare in front to watch. Our eyes meet -- fire. My nerves tell me, salt-struck, how I am alive.
What strange joy, to press up against the bars of what contains you, to dance into the orange of headlights harsh with need. They throw their hips. Here I am, bare with desire, laughing in reply.
Soon, they'll melt back into our circle, shoulder brushing mine. I'll taste the salt of their sweat on the air as I find the cage myself, then find their eyes.
