Dancing through gardens in my mind of
fuschia pink blooms
glinting in warm morning light.
But it is night time in a dark upstairs bar
in Montreal before I understood what was happening.
My addiction was already planted like a seed in
cold, dormant earth before winter.
But it was your tending that grew the blooms.
I hide my thrill at your invitation and can’t yet relax
unselfconscious and regal, but you show me the way.
With hushed, soft breath
I inhale your fragrance, my mouth turned toward your cheek
A height of equals, an embrace without reaching, a connection
that extends far beyond skin, inward, toward the vital organs.
As I step backwards in your embrace
rows of delicate blooms advance in my dancing mind.
Forget-me-nots beside phlox
and shasta daisy.
Lily-of-the-valley sheathed in green cocoons.
I try not to hold on so tight,
but I don’t want to let slip this fine thread
that connects the back of your heart to the center of my palm
threaded forward into my sternum.
The parting of my ribs receive yours.
Hearts buoyant, inflated.
You step urgently, quickly.
I have to pay attention with you.
“Wake up!” is your dance.
But my mind wants to be languid, lazy,
and drift through the piles of peonies
and lilac bushes, moving heart-to-heart in the sun,
to the violins and pianos of a Fresedo soundtrack.
Part of me wants to stay awake with you,
to tune in to your intention,
intensely, trip with you quickly, lightly, lowly,
to be nothing but present to you.
For the last few bars I savour
each weight shift, breathing deeply and full.
On the final beat you step me back and bend deeply at the knees.
We are poised together, with your brow slightly towering mine.
The spring birds tweet and I sway back to my seat
after a slurred and shy “Merci, toujours un plaisir.”
TANGO ABASTO 