INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
CHROMA, D. C.
Tonight the sky is colored
In February sky, the wavering hue
Of cigarette smoke
Dancing off of balconies
In the subtle and intricate curlicue motions
Of last-minute last-train public commuters
Who wordlessly wind down
No light tunnels and low-lit avenues
Avoiding alms-men burrowed in blankets
Under neon signs selling starlets,
And taxis with their unfair fares:
His fumbling unbucklings,
Her unrealized Technicolor dreams
Awakening, now anxiously awaiting
A different shade of day.
THURSDAY NIGHT SALSA LESSONS
We start out basic:
Short and calculated back-and-forths
And out-of-step imperfections.
We switch to strangers to learn a new groove:
Crisscrossed bodies leading
Possible permutations of pirouettes,
Partners revolving until we return together,
Then and again,
My fingers spread along her spine.
Frustrated she laughs at my lack of rhythm,
"Can you hear the beat?"
"I don't." (But I marvel at her grace,
My stiff, staccato, starts and stops
Suddenly shifting out of uncertainty;
Now I'm moving her with my motions,
Her hips hypnotically pendulous
As she closes her eyes
And falls into dreams of dancing
Just as I am falling into dreams of her
And moments of music
When our hearts keep time).
Steve Beaulieu, Washington, D. C.
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