before I raised my hands

but not in applause,

she was a live-wire,

pulled like an angel jitterbugging

towards the light of stars in a

wild nocturnal samba or

waltzing past the jaws of bats in

ball-gown of brown and ginger,

this after

bearing a plane-full of young, then

jiving like a flying tiger,

break-dancing on honeysuckle nectar

 

that ballerina's heart beat a fox-trot

just like mine, no flamenco of

dismay lit those mascara'd eyes

-until I raised my hands