I had the best big brother. Here's a poem I wrote for him a few years ago, about the day I ruined his birthday party. Enjoy a little dance with us ...
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| Author and her brother, before she ruins his party |
Dance, Girl
My brother had a party,
when he was twelve.
I was locked in my bedroom,
too wild,
not to be trusted at
the party, age six.
But I escaped.
I ran into the basement,
wild-eyed, slippery, a flame,
and danced,
startling the shy boys and girls there,
twice my age.
I danced with long-haired,
twisting, child-hearted rage.
None could stop me,
None could get close enough.
My quiet brother dismayed
at me dancing the twist with
everything I had,
begged my parents to DO SOMETHING.
They cleared the dance floor,
stuck to the safety of the walls.
What is this girl?
I heard one boy say.
What is this, girl?
I got claps, cheers, whistles,
I whipped my long hair from side to side,
clapped madly like the tambourine man
(that might have been the song),
and was not to be denied.
I danced at the party
the biggest,
the wildest,
the loudest,
a freak.
Sweaty and staggering,
drunk on fiery stars,
until the music stopped
and someone threw a blanket over me
like a feral cat,
and carried me to bed.
I danced a lifetime,
seldom raged such, since.
But once in a while,
in a tune, a light, a falling leaf,
the long-haired girl comes again
for a moment,
lifting her freak, happy,
wild child’s arms to shine.
Dance, girl, dance
until you are still,
mine.
PD/ First published on this blog November 15, 2020
