Haunted by a 20-Year-Old Dance

 

The pump in the espresso maker

pounds a heartbeat, like dancing feet

like the pulse I felt through the ground

when we danced together, okay not together

but nearby, barefoot on the dusty ground

and the crema in my hand is the color of your skin

the bitters are your eyes

drums in the machine

I am not here, no more am I here, I am there,

and you are Raven, your wings spread

poised to steal the sun.