:::by michele:::

the dancing,

is a religion to her.

i watch her moving in circles,

moving with her eyes closed.

her calloused feet against the oiled wood planks.

she dances past the buffet table lined with tropical fruit platters,

past the karaoke machine that is giving off a soft buzzing sound like frantic whispering,

past my sisters with their blemished legs tucked safely beneath full-bodied skirts,

moving closer and closer to the center of something that has been folded into the pale skin of regret,

i watch and dance with her

but i am still from the staircase were i peer down from the railings,

only my feet tap up and down, up and down.

faint thuds against layers of carpet.

they drink out of green bottles that reflect patterns of blue in the light,

and in the morning,

a large woman is singing off-key,

a spiritual in her native language.

her voice is like sobbing,

breaking the surface of the unspoken,

cracking open what has been forbidden,

and what has been out of reach.

sweet flesh from a mango,

a creamy yellow like egg yolk,

tingles the tip of my tongue,

as i lick the large seed that has been sleeping in the fruit�s center

and let the juices run down my chin and neck,

drying in the creases,

fragrant and sticky.

mother calls to me in a voice,

that is urgent and frightened.

the voice of someone afraid to be alone,

the voice of someone who is afraid they may be wrong.

but i am not listening

as i spin around the length of the room,

my head thrown back,

the ceiling visible from all angles,

the mildew growing in one corner,

edges of broken and chipped paint,

i feel it deep within me,

like the large woman�s voice dripping down my chin and neck in sweet juices.

i feel it pulsing through my body, from my tongue to the flesh between my toes.

and i cannot be still.

i have been saved.

<< 2002-06-03 @ 7:44 a.m. >>

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