A memory of these shy hips.

Who are you
sitting there atop a suitcase dressed in a vest that just fits,
and shoes that show your wares more than your eyes
as you squint in the light rocking with each chord?

I am invisible
With chin in hand.

(This may be the first time I’ve felt the courage of youth
and the shyness of awe.)

Despite this, you are accessible from across the room
with a plastic cup and observant eye close to the nearest exit.
I dance freely;
alone in the cliché of a crowded room.
there.
You.
close.
Watching us girls turn dervish
amidst the acoustic arpeggio.

Hand extended.
I ask you to dance within a turn, slowly.
the feeling of calloused fingers grazing above my wrist nods a simple yes
and a warmth placed firmly
upon these shy hips.

I’ve no inclination to follow a lead
we shadow steps like a melody sung in the round until-

the first spin-with eyes locked.
I am beautiful and invisible with a memory of my chin in hand.
Hand in hand and hands dry-

second spin
I am eighteen and watching the rail
waiting for the moment to leap.
I land here
comfortable
in a strangers warmth
placed upon these shy hips.

Third spin.
I know only ballet and how to lindy-
and this matching step,
my fingers resting on the buckle of your vest
aware (I want to drop to my knees and pray)
you pull me closer
Its all in the hips.

I teach you.

fourth spin
I land in the crook of your arm and take a breath of life.
release
and back to the scent of home.
smile.
coy.
hold.
repeat.

Landing in
an embrace of silence.
The scent of damp earth-
the warmth upon these shy hips.