| | andalusian dancing
Inside
a Monday night cantina on
the east side of Austin, the
cracked concrete
floors. Were
stained with mops to look
like cobblestone. Black plastic
grapes, a snow of dust on their
underleaves. Woven overhead
through
a lattice
too thin
to hold their weight. Two flamenco
roses; our teeth-marks gnawed
into the stems. The taste
is the smell of grass; our faces
close enough
to
all but sample
the bite: gentle, deliberate,
intense. We dance.
A trail
of colors bouncing wall to
wall like neon tetras in a tank,
we
ricochet cannons of light.
Scattering, shimmering,
pulsing through what
was
until this dance. Another cloud
of dreams descending
on the half-closed
eyes of night.
Mia Moore
 12 n
"Very evocative"—Kirk
Blender of Love Dec 2001 | |
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