By Judith Minty
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Extra info for Dancing the fault: poems
Distance grows until voices of truckers float from the radio. Men we can't see hold us steady: is this the way it must be? Once we danced in hot coals, played the drum between our legs. Now this ache we won't speak of. They know about women who suffer from longing. Now they're drawing our water, steam rises up. Now they're pouring the lotion. Now they're heating the sheets. We'll let them soak us and oil us, knead us and pound us. They'll croon as they wrap these bones and this flesh. Oh Friend, we're here that's what mattersand we will come out of this white time holy.
I wanted to follow their shadows, drink wine with them. But your father touched my arm, told me to speak French to the policeman, ask directions to our hotel. You were both in Michigan then, I seldom thought of you on that trip. She says that her husband laughs, does not believe her when she whispers how the gypsies came, flashing their eyes, strolling across the Iowa cornfields. Think of that fire he keeps, his house full of urchins. Those men in Switzerland, they never looked at me. Page 27 3 It's a joke in this family, more yours than mine, that I still think of myself as young.
She puts her fingers to the glass and enters their rhythm. She steps inside their color. Page 22 Snow in April Warm days for a week, overcoats shoved to the back of the closet and windows open, the gas turned down. Yesterday, warnings of other false hopes from men in shirtsleeves at the shop, mothers softly at the dinner table. Sons and daughters act smug, say that Winter's given up. They boast that a day's drive south forsythia and crocus explode with color. But the old ones are restless. They tell the tales over again, even as the ground turns white and lonely arms of coats stretch out from their hangers.