Wish I Could Dance
by Larry L. Fontenot



At the School for Left Feet
my missteps gathered
into all the wrong rhythms,
the heels of my feet rolled
like mercury over waxed floors.
When I danced, windows bulged,
hallways expanded, rooms held their breath.
My legs buckled, knees shook
and clacked until I retreated
to the cool bench, felt the scorn
a gravedigger has for the waiting hole.
Speak to your feet, my partner said,
her voice crisp as tortilla chips.
But I could never rouse my toes,
worthless as scoops of spoiled grapefruit.
So began my history of failure
with women of spunk and rhythm.






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