by Tracy K. Smith

    1.

    The earth is dry and they live wanting.

    Each with a small reservoir

    Of furious music heavy in the throat.

    They drag it out and with nails in their feet

    Coax the night into being.  Brief believing.

    A skirt shimmering with sequins and lies.

    And in this night that is not night，

    Each word is a wish， each phrase

    A shape their bodies ache to fill-

    I'm going to braid my hair

    Braid many colors into my hair

    I'll put a long braid in my hair

    And write your name there

    They defy gravity to feel tugged back.

    The clatter， the mad slap of landing.

    2.

    And not just them.  Not just

    The ramshackle family， the tios，

    Primitos， not just the bailaor

    Whose heels have notched

    And hammered time

    So the hours flow in place

    Like a tin river， marking

    Only what once was.

    Not just the voices scraping

    Against the river， nor the hands

    nudging them farther， fingers

    like blind birds， palms empty，

    echoing.  Not just the women

    with sober faces and flowers

    in their hair， the ones who dance