The slow luxury of reeling one another in.

What inspires me later in the night...

Poems (read every word.)

In the story my aunt tells, this is how they met.
It's September, the war just over,
the air crisp as the creases in my father's khaki pants,
bright as his Bronze Star,
pungent as the marigold my mother tucks behind one ear,
the night they both sign up
for dance lessons "the Arthur Murray way"
at the Statler Hotel in downtown Philly.

He's there to meet girls,
of that I am certain,
and she's there for romance,
though I don't think that's what she would say,
both of them looking for something as intangible as the cigarette smoke
that rises in old, deckle-edged photos—
everyone tough, glamorous, vampy.

Perhaps there are dance cards?
Or maybe partners are assigned?
The truth is, no one really knows
about the moment when their glance
catches and snags across the room,
a fishline pulling taut as they place their feet
on Murray's famous "magic footsteps,"
and start the slow luxury of reeling one another in.
Music spills from a scratchy Victrola
as she places her hand on his shoulder,
feels the slight pressure of his palm against her back,
and they begin to move together,
her hesitant steps following
his over-enthusiastic swings,
until they are both lost in "The More I See You"
or "I Don't Want to Walk Without You Baby,"
the future stretching out before them
like a polished oak dance floor.

I don't know if they went back for more lessons,
or how they learned to dip and twirl and slide together,
though I once saw my father spin my mother completely around—
her skirt flaring out around her like the bell of a silk lamp shade—
just months before she died.
It's their story
after all,
the one with a secret hidden deep inside it
like all love stories—
bigger than we are or will ever be—
music from a Big Band coming up in the background,
playing "You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To,"
while our parents swoop and glide
in the spotlight, keeping back
just enough of the story to make us wonder.

[My Parents' Dance Lessons 1945 - Alison Townsend]

I'm sorry I was late.
I was pulled over by a cop
for driving blindfolded
with a raspberry-scented candle
flickering in my mouth.
I'm sorry I was late.
I was on my way
when I felt a plot
thickening in my arm.
I have a fear of heights.
Luckily the Earth
is on the second floor
of the universe.
I am not the egg man.
I am the owl
who just witnessed
another tree fall over
in the forest of your life.
I am your father
shaking his head
at the thought of you.
I am his words dissolving
in your mind like footprints
in a rainstorm.
I am a long-legged martini.
I am feeding olives
to the bull inside you.
I am decorating
your labyrinth,
tacking up snapshots
of all the people
who've gotten lost
in your corridors.

[Compulsively Allergic to the Truth - Jeffrey McDaniel]