Damballa
Old saying says,
“If you can walk you can . . .”
With the blinds drawn tight and sun on the pane, I dance.
Neighbors can’t see the outline of limb’s shadows
waving
and signing
behind the shades.
I sway,
Stamp to my CD drummers.
I am sweat and flush and labored breath,
some priestess of snakes
guiding a procession
of silk
clad ladies
across
a snake charmed floor.
Our arms
slither like waxed and red scales.
We are solitarians
crossing trees for coils
of rest.
Fingers flicker like tongues
lapping onto soft palettes.
We dance,
feel drumbeats spiral up through thighs, bellies, chests, arms.
We dance
until hoods raised, backs swayed, hips and spines thrive.
We dance
until we’ve forgotten the meaning of the song,
and it doesn’t matter if we know all the steps.
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