I dream of dancing– Intricacies of Argentina, Ebb and flow– Grace of Vienna, Lift and swirl Through shifting scenarios.
I wake. Dancing ends. Truly, I did dance once. So many years ago. Steps, lifts, patterns Long forgotten. I tried and tried to learn That Texas Two Step. Quick, quick, slow, slow— They said. But some inject a little extra step, A tiny pause here or there. I stand accused of trying to lead When I should have followed. My pointy boots, often in the way, Did nothing to protect my feet. And if you must know, This last try crushed My instep and toes. I’ve just started to walk again. So dancing, my friend?
I believe my dancing days are at an end. So, do not ask me to try again When I stumble and fall Just walking and talking. Dancing, a longed-for energy, I no longer possess.
I may want, I may dream. But I cannot chance The crushing of another’s feet In my bumbling, stumbling attempts– To dance once again The passionate closed embrace Caricias and lustrada footwork Of Argentina, Or the sweeping flow Of canter time pivot turns And fleckerls and contra check in the grace of Vienna. So, no tango, no waltz. And this old dog Has proven she is just too old To learn any new tricks Of dancing. Let this old dog sleep And dream And remember What once it was like To dance With such Passionate, graceful Abandon.
I drift Drift in purpose, direction, Resolve in question. Telling myself on repeat I’ve no need, no want Of soft skin against mine. To feel another’s heart beat Against my chest. Though I remember, Though I can still imagine, When I close my eyes What it is To close my hand round the soft hand of another, To fall asleep embracing—entwined, entangled, To wake and smell sleep warmed skin, To touch and take and give and kiss Before coffee should touch my lips. Such hunger is not a thing I allow myself to taste, The risk too rich, too great to let it touch upon the tongue. I am not young enough for a taste of what Should bring me to my knees— Of what I imagine That she’d taste like memory.
Turn toward the hours passed. Size them and arrange. Let soak in dyes of prism colors As the minutes pass away and then Lift them, dripping dye, To hang in the warming sun Over tight strung wire. Watch the colors drip, splashing on the floor. Wet splotches collecting in puddles Of liquid silk to be mopped away As the hours drip colored dye In the drying of time.
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