To have loved, is more than man
For should ever want, or can
Ask of, out of his life.
The ever stirring mind, and
Almost frenzied hands
Of the fools who dance,
The waltz of romance

The things I could do
If only I could just
Get up
And
Dance.

It’s the Thursday morning before valentine’s day. Lisa and I are scrambling to get out of our suite. We share an Organic Biochemistry class and we’re running a hot minute late. As we pulled on our shoes Lisa asked me, “Do you have fun Valentine's weekend plans?” The question, since I have a BF, contained a suggestion of impending sexiness. We grabbed our bags and were soon out of the dorm.

“I do NOT have fun.. WELL??.. well,” I said hesitating - was this the time to let my secret out?
“Well?” Lisa follows up excitedly.
We’re out in the quad now, an uncovered rectangle of grass and walkways. It’s 37° and cloudy. It’s going to drizzle all day. We maneuver around the slower movers, bookbags on our shoulders and coffees in hand.

“You’ve familiar with, umm, Twib?” I asked.
“Twib! I’VE heard of them,” Lisa, chuckles, “they do some singing and plucking of strings, I believe.”
Yeah, yeah. They’ve gone underground, and um, their crush is tomorrow night”
“Oh, Wow,” she said, somewhat shocked, “Twib has crush?”
“They have crush,” I confirm.
“How did I not know this?” Lisa asks the universe, “EVERYTHING has crush!” she laughs.
“Everything has crush this year,” I agreed.“

We get to the bus stop right as the shuttle arrives - it’s perfect timing - and we board.
“I think “Crush” is a really cute name, better than “Spring Fling, for a dance name,” Lisa said.
“Anyway,” I softly announce, leaning into her even though we’re close and sharing a seat, “I’ve got three invites, so I’m taking Peter, of course, and YOU,”
Lisa laughs, “OK”
“And,” I add suspensefully - this was the surprise - “YOUR secret crush,” I add grinning and bouncing with excitement.

Lisa freezes, turns pale and looks at me like I’m crazy. “What?” she says hoarsely.
“Tom,” I said hesitantly, “Peter invited Tom..”
Now Lisa has a wide-eyed look and her cheeks have turned a flamingo pink color.
“He doesn’t KNOW he’s your crush,” I add quickly, reassuringly, putting my free hand on hers.
That seems to calm her, “You didn’t SAY anything,” she asked, scrutinizing me for any sign of deception.
“No, I swear, I said, making the sacred “x” sign over my heart, “We’d never. It was just a fun, surprise idea.” Suddenly the shuttle seemed hot and uncomfortable, I took off my scarf.

We shared the last 10 minutes of the ride bickering. After we got off, we made our bickering way to class. As we settled in (we sit together) I offered,
“We can cancel, I can cancel, it was a stupid idea - I’m sorry.”

“No,” Lisa sighed, “I don’t always adjust well to surprises.. OK.. let’s do it!”
“What was all THAT (bickering) about then??” I asked.
“Oh, that was just fun,” she smiled, “I was making you sweat. Ok, What’s the theme? What are you wearing? Where’s it going to be held?” Lisa finally started asking critical questions.

“It’ll be at Luther (college) and the theme is biomes,” I said.
“Biomes?” Lisa asked.
“Biomes - like grasslands and tundra,” I explained.  
“Ohh, ok, sure” Lisa chuckled.
“And I got a dress from Princess Polly. Sorry Fast Fashion,” I joked.
“Hey, you know,” Lisa agreed, “When biomes call.”  
“You got it,” I nodded, “and I’m excited because I got a dress for you too!”
“For ME?” Lisa exclaimed, “aww.”  
“I know what you like,” I claimed.  “You do,” she admitted.
“It was a surprise and time was short, you’ll love it,” I declared, as the TA took the podium.
“It’ll be a go-hard night.” I whisper.

“You should all have a PSet and paper to hand in,” the TA announces, as class begins.

were we looking
for the feminine
of our soft hands
no questioning
the nature of daylight
is wonder, we feel it
in our touch
we know the ancient art of
cartography: love memory
death quivers deltas of tears
we taste the starvation of breath
the magnitude of gratitude

we kept the drum of hearts
alight to catch the waves of time
Anna's drum summoned Shiva,
the master of shiver
the god of blood
carrying sage scent in our hair
forgotten paths in our shapes
pink lotus flowers in our wombs
bold desires in our feet
tales of flames in each scar

we recognise each other
greet with a soul reverence
across time across space
we forgive ouselves
our betrayals violations
of a feminine truth
we wait for the men we love
we set ourselves free
from the spinning wheel of pain

we receive
we keep
what is alive
what is dead
still not born
in refused bodies:
the possibility of
kindness

we are women
we are dancers
we sing fiercely,
gently from the
chest of the moon

I surrender and

dance, at home, across the room --


singing with my arms.

The dancer, amazed,

keeps revealing secret doors --


that no one can see.

it showed
an utter disdain
for the conventions
of such an event
that they would
not toe the line
like the others
they proffered
none of the standard
shoulder-dipping
sidestepped shuffles
nor the exuberant
failing of arms
that have come
to be expected
of "good" dancers
those overused staples
that accompany such
predictable song choices
outdated and enjoyed
only ironically
this dance could not
faithfully manifest
their truth

they danced
not for that unnoticed
peripheral audience
but solely
to tell a story
to one another
instead they chased
cavorted and capered
with piggybacks
and fireman's lifts
arms-spread spinning
they became fireworks
their bodies
exploding apart
pulled together
breathlessly
slipping
   and stumbling
without a care
leaping shoelessly
from place to place
from song to song
ending always
in each other's arms

I’m busy as a bus.
Ten hours on the telephone, research resources,
school staff, counsel clients.
Some sleep.
Then invite Lorraine downtown, the lovely loyal
secretary, to hear jammin jazz crew. By taxi tonight,
sans subway.
I’ve never been to this joint before
but admire the women in their dresses and makeup.
In New York, they smell wild. Elsewhere
women are ranchers and gardeners.
We find a small table in the crowd,
order drinks. The band is four young black men.
Lorraine is black too, by the by.
We get up to dance and I leave my cowboy boots
under the table. I’ve always enjoyed
the way Lorraine puts her arms around me.
I’m the oldest cat in the club
which is frightening
since just fifteen years ago I was the youngest.
I wink at the trumpet player with my fairly abandoned mien
who comes over to our table between sets.
He likes Lorraine. They jukebox it.
She falls in love.

only two dancers
remain standing
shuffling
   and swaying
under syncopated lights
held by
an unspoken law
an apparently unavoidable
trait of human nature
that forces them
to continue despite
such terrible choices
of song
and persistence
each was merely
a "friend
   of the bride"
moving in different circles
prior to this
their dancefloor meeting
unfortunately
neither can now
abandon the other
to dance alone
to risk being seen
as the cause
for bringing this
near-sacred ritual
to an end
these residual bodies
left with no choice
but to mirror
each movement
match every sidestep
echo every clap
with rhythm
   or without
it will not matter
so long as this
transient solidarity
of misplaced confidence
and forced smiles
continues into
the next song