Skip to main content

the same dance

we are dancing the same dance, but at very different speeds

me standing on Daddy’s feet, five years old, at the van Renterghems’ New Year’s Eve party (oh and the grownup tables at my eye height as I wandered the room, the pig with its frilly skirt and apple in its month, us miniature Baptists telling jokes about Catholics, what did we know)

we are dancing the same dance, but to such different music

you send me messages and there is never a ding or a buzz,
just randomly later I glance over and there are your words, floating

we are dancing such a different dance to this same old music
will we ever find ourselves dancing it together?

Marjy and me on our untrained tiptoes, fat Belgian lady at the piano, tiny Belgian girls in their bathing suits leaping across the floor

Mommy and Ruthy and me in the living room, put your little foot, all of us on the cracked tennis court, square dances on records, Uncle Jerry shooing away the little kids, won’t you dance with me honey tuck your toes in tight!

I thought we were all dancing the same dance

I thought we were dancing the same dance, but look at your feet and look at mine
I thought we were dancing in the same room, but we’re decades apart

that pig in its little frilly skirt, eye to my eye

modern dance in the Multi-Purpose Room, Valerie teaching us negative space, write a report on the movement of the fruit as it drops into the fruit salad bowl

aerobic dance in the Multi-Purpose Room, Brenda teaching us points, warmup situps to Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover, rows of us on those sweaty blue mats

I thought we were still dancing
always dancing
I thought we were
maybe it was just me

when the music stops, does everyone just go home?
is that why everything’s empty?

you never know which tune is going to
get somebody dancing
you never really know
what tune is playing in their head

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I don't know what they want

I don’t know what they want so I offer cookies and lemonade I don’t know what they need so I proffer sleeping bags, toothbrushes I don’t know who they are so we start introductions I don’t know where they came from so we start drawing maps I don’t know what might be useful so I start pulling things out camera bags, wooden trains, tiny Lederhosen, broken easels I don’t know what might be dangerous so I pack things away sharp tables, Ethiopian daggers, rat poison, bleach I don’t know when they’ll be back so I wait I don’t know when they’ll be back so I wonder I don’t know when they’ll be back so I start vaguely doodling I don’t know if they’ll be back so I pack up to go I don’t know why it matters but some things make me mad so I try to remember: one foot, one day I don’t know why it matters but some things make me sad so I look for the music, I wait for the sunshine Oh I am the desert and those thoughts are like tumbleweeds I am the sky and the...

House of My Life (landays)

how can you call this a quiet night when inside the skull there is a ceaseless ricochet? empty your mind, you prophets tell me but do you not know how many would then be homeless? all my bodies are in here with me all my mothers, all the mosquito-bitten evenings we are eating mangoes and guavas we are leaving home, again and again and again we hear the echoes of slamming doors and the quiet shush of pages turning, returning counting out the years, bites, loves, the beats all my children, my selves, the loud repeating futures this is an endless house of my life do not make me tear it down, where would I live and rest?

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...