After the Contradance

She stands in the hallway gathering up
dark as if to restore peace at last
to an ambushed city. Her heels twisted,
swung down and around, roughed

by partners who've danced wild
like the leaves that followed her home,
chasing, tireless on the ground. She gasps,
reaches out for her final

partner, holds herself tight round his neck
and rests against the wall. For so young a woman,
she tires easily—red socks wet, brow cut sharp
with worry; she has danced herself out to seek

a still life with warm colours, in need.
Yet in the bow of his voice, she finds comfort,
wooden grace more supple than the backs of swiftly
swinging men who hold so tight it hurts.

Between the oak walls of her hallway
and his high carved voice she is held, effortlessly
catching those country nuances, and can play
the do-si-dos that evade her, gentle conversations

between dances where fingers touch backs
and lines are blurred. Once a month, after the dance,
she has this; as the leaves gather round her ankles
she can shake them off against the pavement,

and late in the hallway, her wrist
knows which way to circle round.

Return to Index of Poetry by Erika Kulnys