How to Dance a Cross Medley
Kristin Towe
Have you ever danced a cross medley?
By this, of course, I mean
did you ever once feel the hot asphalt dig into the tender flesh of your feet
and plead with the nebulous cloud goddess for ascension?
I too have trudged the tedious black-and-yellow,
but that was before I learned to tango with telephone wires
before I dipped my toe into the ocean sky and was submerged.
What I am saying is clear
and fresh as the street-side daisy, uprooted by Mother Wind
and pirouetting through the expansive blue like a young girl at her first ballet recital.
Freedom. Is it not the wish of every maiden, strapped to the bomb of love?
I came to the city in search of a man and a dream.
Instead, I learned only how to tend my burns (aloe works well).
I begged the street vendor for directions,
but he insisted on giving me road names and subway routes.
Sir, please, how do I wander into the expansive blue?
As you can see,
I am weary of asphalt promises
of tending burns
of unremembered dreams.
Might you blow your smoke in this direction? I am familiar with the taste of ashes.
I asked for waltzes and tangos,
not the daily concrete death march.
How small the city seems now,
now that I have fallen in love with the sky.
Telephone poles make the loveliest of dancing partners.
Quiet. The blue queen is calling to me once more, and I shall not wander the desert forever.
