I’d love to dance a proper tango
with flicks and slicks, quick and slow,
in sensuous syncopation,
perfection clinging to my limbs
like the smell of danger.
I still dream of a partner to explore
the musical vibration in every pore.
Connect with eyes closed,
be guided yet seduce to influence,
push back when needed,
make our music last beyond the final note.
But I fear the slide and bite
of feet so restless across the sprung floor.
I distrust the closeness of the hold, refuse to lean in…
Because I’m tired of looking clumsy
and trying too hard,
being old-dog-new-tricks kind of odd.
Because I no longer know how to walk in heels backwards.
Because nowhere do I feel as alone
as in the arms of all those others,
reassessing, readjusting, taking measure every dance.
So I pretend to go to weekly tango classes
and sit in my car in the woods, scribbling poems.
