LEARNING TO DANCE, 1956

For Marlene Broich

It was the 50s, and all of us
were kids, but you were older—
almost a woman—and you would

teach me to dance. You were
the dark-haired child in a family
of blondes, slightly exotic, wilder,

my best friend’s sister.
In your father’s basement,
you took my hand and showed me

how to hold you—how to hold
a woman. I was fourteen and knew
already how to be awkward. You knew

I was falling into shadows. When I breathed
your hair, I was no longer in the forest
but had broken through

to a clearing where tall grasses whispered
and swayed, where white-petalled daisies
and violet clover blossomed in profusion.

You moved me deeper into the music
and made a meadow spring up around me.
Your body showed me that I had strength

to change the moment, if only the quiet
power of a summer breeze . . .
When you said I would be a good dancer,

that I had rhythm      that I could swing,
I held you close: some day,
I would find the one

who would pull me near to her in love,
not mercy; I would dance with her
and learn her secret names.