The Dance
It was winter in Vermont,
When Agha Shahid Ali,
poet and samba man extraordinaire
whirled me in tight circles in the Commons,
his grip so tight we became a single
centrifuge, our sweat and laughter mingling.
My breath forced out to my skirt hem, which flew
wider and wider, opening the space around us,
the rhythm of my heart wilder
than bounding doe's.
Snow howled on the porch, pressing for admission.
Revelers stamped in and out.
The ring of women around us,
human manadala, rosary,
crop circle, druid choir,
called out their ullulations
to the Kashmiri exile
poet and the middle-class visitor from Massachusetts---
both of whose eyes were shining,
open--- in that moment
we have no ancestors.
There is nothing else to believe.
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