Dancing with Everyone
- Meg Anderson
- Jun 1, 2016
- 1 min read
I wake up in Raffe’s bed
through the dusty morning window
I see a palm
growing sunward
up up out
from the crumpling of bright houses
into cloudy
and blue
it’s the California sky.
up, away
bye Raffe
Charlie
gave me heartwood,
told me to smell it,
I reluctantly held it to my nose — this piece of hum-drum monochromatic kindling
But then, when I clutched it and kept inhaling the fumes from the sap and the wood
she smiled saying, see
and then she got in a clown car
and the clowns
tatooed and hollering
drove away
festival bound
with bright plastic juggling pins
trailing a pot cloud
bye Charlie
I admired the way the swing dancer danced with everyone
Swinging right out of these arms and into those.
Swirling joyfully to never get pinned, never KO’d
with awkwardness, worry, uneasiness, but just kept swinging ‘round on whims
dancing with everyone.
And then I got to be the one. To fall and leap and leave.
But in leaving them I am trying to leave me too.
That’s the part I didn’t see, in that swing dancer.
“Just because you don’t want to be with yourself doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you!” Rob shouted at me as we huddled beneath a broken umbrella bracing ourselves against the rain and wind, having invented some reason to speed-walk down the abandoned tracks in the wind and rain shouting beneath a broken umbrella. young. in Indiana.
Bye Rob.
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