The Day the Music Came Back
First night in the hospital.
A loaded playlist
on my son’s iPod.
A gift of my favorite songs.
It creates a hive of music and medicine
in five-minute cells where I huzz
through hours, remembering.
I danced when I was ten,
twirling and twisting
on a sweep of Gene Kelly feet
umbrella in hand, suddenly
my driveway a Parisian street
raindrops keep falling on my head.
I danced in high school,
walk away, walk away, I will follow
in door slams, the creaking backing open,
the goodbye and hello, told in spiked hair,
in April winds which melt the punk.
I danced club floors in college,
to a polished sheen of club floor tile,
vacant, except for our alive—
you spin me right round baby right round
art in 130 heartbeats a minute
instead of class minutia at Loyola.
I danced my babies, soon
around the house on hips
singing silly songs
London Bridge is falling down
they laughed into hiccups.
Somewhere the music had stopped.
When did I forget?
I hope you dance.
I danced by the pool this morning
my dog watched, wary
from the other side.
