Dancing With Sasquatch
A fist through the wall while you’re sipping
vermouth and listening to Schubert, this thing
that looms and bellows like a creature chained
to a tree for centuries, suddenly unleashed.
You run but buckle, spinning from the heavy metal
clang that eclipses reason and light, and the stench—
like breathing crushed glass—as you struggle
to imagine the pale blue houses by the bay,
redwoods at dawn, your lover’s face,
but the whang and clatter invade your chest
and you forget the sweet floating blackness
of your first refuge, before time and dreaming
when you swayed as if forever to the lilt of zero
gravity. You forget how the trembling becomes
a dance, that everything you need is in this moment.
©Lucy Aron, Dogwood, Spring 2002
