by Ioanna Carlsen
When they play the bandeleon you think they’re blind—
inside the surge,
there’s always a little moment and then
something builds up—everything builds—
breaks into
a kind of chaos—
and then stops dead—
a story told in three minutes by a blind man.
Fixed gaze on the dancers too,
and then,
the way the leg goes up
or down
with such abandon
tells you something—
kick it back,
twirl it,
drag it—a long way—
then stop.
She’s on the floor–
one long line—
this is it, being alive,
riveted to an accordion,
swirl and come together,
so exciting,
he’s found her
and she’s made up her mind to leave him–
the lift—
the pause—
the flurry—and then
the sadness—so like life,
love, tumbling into
a descent
then,
the fall, the body long and leaning into it,
the huge swirl before the end.
