The Dance

The music is slightly discordant.
But I am determined
To dance this pas de deux.

I flow towards you.
On tiptoes, you twist your torso
Turning your arched long back to me
You stretch forward towards no one.
Or maybe it’s me that can’t see.

I glide to you
Because that’s what I know.
That’s what I do.
You reach sharply into the unknown.
I brush my foot on the side tentatively, unsure.
Then I spring off to land behind you
You feel my breath,
Warm. Moist.
Two vertical leaps you do.
Two vertical leaps I do.
You are the Christ.
I am the Matthew, Mark, Peter and John.
You swing back unexpectedly
Stepping on my foot
I let out a squeal in rhythm with the mournful music.

The devil’s workshop plays a trick on me.
It hisses to me that it is that time of the dance.
That time when you sweep my buxom flesh into your burly frame.
That time when I feel your solid arms firmly around my waist
That time when I can lean back and lift a leg into the air,
Knowing you wouldn’t let me fall.
Couldn’t let me down.

Nothing of that sort happens.
Instead, the space between us trembles in suspense.
My mouth turns into an O of surprise.
Yours becomes a straight line of coldness
Our backs are arched outwards.
Our hands stretched straight in front of us.
Our heels in the air.
I pirouette from the centre of my pain to the left.
You do a grand jetè like a gazelle from the centre to the right.
In defeat, I plant my shaking feet on the floor of the ballroom
I curtsy and run off the dance floor.
Offstage, I gracefully crumble.