by Tracy K. Smith

    1.

    The earth is dry and they live wanting.

    Each with a small reservoir

    Of furious music heavy in the throat.

    They drag it out and with nails in their feet

    Coax¹ the night into being.  Brief believing.

    A skirt shimmering² with sequins and lies.

    And in this night that is not night，

    Each word is a wish， each phrase

    A shape their bodies ache to fill-

    I'm going to braid my hair

    Braid many colors into my hair

    I'll put a long braid in my hair

    And write your name there

    They defy gravity to feel tugged³ back.

    The clatter⁴， the mad slap of landing.

    2.

    And not just them.  Not just

    The ramshackle family， the tios，

    Primitos， not just the bailaor

    Whose heels have notched⁵

    And hammered time

    So the hours flow in place

    Like a tin river， marking

    Only what once was.

    Not just the voices scraping

    Against the river， nor the hands

    nudging them farther， fingers

    like blind birds， palms empty，

    echoing.  Not just the women

    with sober faces and flowers

    in their hair， the ones who dance

    as though they're burying

    memory-one last time-

    beneath them.

    And I hate to do it here.

    To set myself heavily beside them.

    Not now that they've proven

    The body a myth， parable⁶

    For what not even language

    Moves quickly enough to name.

    If I call it pain， and try to touch it

    With my hands， my own life，

    It lies still and the music thins，

    A pulse felt for through garments.

    If I lean into the desire it starts from-

    If I lean unbuttoned into the blow

    Of loss after loss， love tossed

    Into the ecstatic void-

    It carries me with it farther，

    To chords that stretch and bend

    Like light through colored glass.

    But it races on， toward shadows

    Where the world I know

    And the world I fear

    Threaten to meet.

    3.

    There is always a road，

    The sea， dark hair， dolor.

    Always a question

    Bigger than itself-

    They say you're leaving Monday

    Why can't you leave on Tuesday？

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