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I just have to dance.
by Bob ArcaniaI will survive dancing
--with passion. Imbibed in my every
footfall.
I take whiskey like Easter,
once a year,
over the grave of my mother.
She survived birthing my brother
only because I came next in line.
As I emerged twisting
--swerving--
I survived the mountains of her wails.
Swaying my wrists to my hips
to the beat of her tonsils
in her throat.
Mother, mother I lived
music in your navel.
With passion imbibed
my feet fall--doctor, Doctor,
let this be her medicine.
Her eyelids rain sweet
to my palms.
Have her know this when she wakes. 03/26/2007 Author's Note: Don't give up on her quite yet, doctor, Doctor. I just have to dance.
Posted on 03/27/2007
Copyright © 2025 Bob Arcania
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