1.
A boy named Vincent taught me
how to slow dance,
low dance, & fast dance.
We belted out Salt-N-Pepa,
crooned to Coolio, & swooned to the New Kids
on The Block.
We played our music loud,
so the bass thumped in our sternums.
We were too young for the dance club,
but we imagined
dirty neon lights dangling from ceiling beams
that flickered on & off without rhythm,
wriggly wires like crooked chicken bones
strung together. I could
hear the music in my chest, vibrating, waiting,
a wave that would flatten my thoughts, wash
them away with a mindless, insistent staccato.
I wanted to be the pulse of this music
—as it pulled me out of myself, unhooked pelvises,
butts pivoting on their axes. Cocktail
stirrers littering the dance floor,
like discards in a game
of Pick-Up Sticks.
Every evil thought in my head
dropped in the rhythm.
When anxiety creeps from the base of my skull,
& makes my scalp tingle & tighten, when it swells
beneath my breastbone, I turn on the radio, close
my eyes & walk into the music, into shadows
of imagined night clubs, & sticky nights
press against my skin, until perspiration beads
my upper lip. In the musical based on my life,
the voice of the lead singer is strong
& unlabored even when stretching for notes
in upper registers. I hang on every phrase,
awaiting the next pause, streak or curve.
There is a rhythm in my movements.
I am a pulse.
2.
In the plume of heat that engulfs
the afternoon air, Hialeah
parades down Calle Ocho.
The city is a livewire, flicking like a dare.
Pockets of worry have been torn
from sweat-soaked shirts,
& I’ve found something
inside myself,
asleep for so very long
I don’t know the word for it.
But there must be a word for it.
You forget your troubles,
like a single clove
hidden
among the soggy chunks
of eggplant & okra
in the legumes
they sell at the food stand.
The beat of the band
becomes hands on your hips,
& you forget about gravity.
You fall into me,
your soles slipping
on jagged terrain.
As you dance, you lean back
into my chest
& I don’t know your name yet,
but allow the back of your head
to nestle in my sternum.
You find something inside yourself,
asleep for so very long
you don’t know the word for it.
But there must be a word for it.
There’s a word
for most things in the world
But we both know
some things are indefinable,
untranslatable,
unspeakable.
The word is lost,
forgotten,
almost remembered,
almost found.
Sanctified.
In the plume of heat that engulfs
the afternoon air,
you are a livewire
flicking like a dare.
3.
Port-au-Prince erupts in an ecstatic
fête of pulsating music & swirling
dancers. Carnival: Thousands of frantic
souls in the Champ-de-Mars—marching, bouncing.
Blur of colors—purple for justice, green
for faith & gold for power. Beads. Feathers.
Sequins. Glitter. Majestic kings & queens.
The introverted become merry makers.
Jenny & I shake rainbow maracas,
both frightened & elated. We hardly
breathe, swallowed by this bacchanalian mass,
this colorful crush of humanity.
We throng among the glamorous & keen,
the bizarre, the hungry, the in-between.
The bizarre, the hungry, the in-between
dance to rara rhythms & spicy sounds.
Revelers as we’ve never before seen
trail the bann a pye on the heated ground.
cigarettes. Forget heartache & raw pain.
We follow the hordes of dancers, slathered
in body paint, oil & mud—we’re insane.
Nèg Gwo Siwo lead the parade, bodies
coated with tallow, cane syrup & sweat,
entranced in the pure rasin melodies,
the deep rhythm of trombones & trumpets.
We lose ourselves in the Carnival.
In the delirious crowd, ça n’ va pas mal.
4.
The music man sits in his wicker chair. Hands trace
intricate patterns, directing an orchestra.
Music sheets nap on top of a piano
in the corner of his studio. He sees
his wife knitting on the red
padded sofa, feels her silent anticipation.
He French kisses his shiny saxophone
blows a tentative do, ré, mi.
The notes tremble, then with deep
clarity, reach out
& wrap themselves around him.
Eyes downcast,
he commands the music like a snake
charmer working a deep trance.
Cheeks puff & fingers glide quickly
along the clean, oiled valves.
He turns into a merman;
shares with the darkness
the elusive beauty of true, clear notes
that ring off the ceiling, that sweat
the moisture of the cool April night.
The melody lifts out the window, past
the coconut & palm trees,
down the ravine,
to the dark paved road;
the sax coaxes the weeds,
& calls to Baron Samedi
in the cemetery beyond,
burnished & brooding,
ripples the still
surface of the mosquito-dotted lake
on the edge of the city,
green water merging with the night.
His music is the heartbeat of a last kiss.
His eyes see his beloved
on that sofa, trace the curves
of her flowered dress
& robust shoulders,
as her lips smooth
into the shapes of love.
His lips barely touch the mouthpiece,
his tongue teases
the metal into looping percussion,
into a waterfall of clearing rainbows
pouring into the soul,
an evening adieu.
***
(Cover art for this poem by Frank Morrison)
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