Dancing Tango         (is from another dimension)
by Rebecca Barnstaple

The door opens and medium darkness extends vague shapes and strains,
their concentration collecting density; a flush of awakening dew on flowers
whose pollen flies a secret morning between them. You listen

and prepare yourself in the lit-up night of your inside slammed against the light
of this window, the star-pulse bangs up a six-side sphere and the moth in you
will follow an ancient rule of navigation: draw me from the dark

to find one like me, let me see myself. Now here you are, wings folded
putting on shoes, stopped by the scent of tastes, breathing quick on sound
when the light adjusts and something is arranged, exchanged, predicted,

you adjust to the gravity of motion on a centrifugal floor. Self and self the soul
collides and the new-born shape announces her name, limbs stretched she moves
grace to her bidding and you and you and you are dancing from the centre

of her pupil, drinking the light of unseen flavours to witness what we knew
but couldn't name before; the slow creature that opens when touched, releasing
what longs and pulls the shade of a likeness wanted and forgotten at the same time

behind them while the connection shoots higher, rooted in the music. Turning
with need to feel a sudden other presence we embrace this contradiction;
outside has collapsed and rushes in or from response, around us suspended

in an orbit that holds and throws directions like water on the ground, sparks
and life and how we move to dance with our equal and find you so beautiful
i cannot stop.

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