Though fluent dancing solo,
I falter with the waltz,
my fingers stiff against
your arm . . . I resist
the slide of polished floor
and swirl of chandeliers
and blur of spinning couples
while you, so close, seem not
to move.
My feet refuse
to follow this illusion.
I take only small steps.
But perhaps I can learn.
Riding home in your car
through a stampede of trees,
how easily the moon
stays at your side.
Published in The New Press
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