Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

She Dances

She dances to the music of her own wandering
to create something new to surprise herself
in the dime store of hope, now a warehouse
with dozens of eyes embedded in its walls,
eyes sentencing those who enter through
the chipped frame as its door..

She dances her jig as if a spirit
melting into air, her steps weaving the fabric
of what she thinks she sees: cloud-capped towers,
dark-eyed palaces in distant shadows,
the half-moon's light touch, ash-pink roses,
jacaranda trees, gaudy parrots...

She dances, her moves artsy to instant choreography
using anything: mold on the walls, old photos,
broken sculptures, phrases, word fragments,
all eating away into her time, the floor
reverberating to the steps she wants to take,
wants to have taken.

She dances to her inventory of scars, wondering about
her feet. Do they have the power in tea leaves,
crystal balls, spells of sirens, magic? If not, so what?
In the dime store of hope, now turned to a warehouse,
decrepit, with dozens of eyes embedded in the walls,
she dances to survive.


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Prompt: A dime a dozen...