Tango

How he walks is difficult to explain.
I cannot, for all the times I’ve seen him
at the cafe where I start my days, say
what injury caused his crippled limp.
An outward twist of the shin has left
a great weight for the hip to carry...
A catching swivel, eccentric as a cam,
a sort of gathered rush, then hesitation,
then a soft, light scraping of the sole.
And yet, of all the people I imagine
dancing with, as I savor my espresso
he intrigues the most. I could make use
of that shift, I keep on telling myself.
So sure I am about it, I almost cross
the floor and, with angel tenderness,
embrace him in an invitation to dance
the tango with me, allowing for a lead
as will be led in heaven, when all of us
dance all of the time, in all of our bodies,
however we have lived, whatever ages
have passed us through. Like this music,
out of nowhere, surrounding suddenly,
and my flawless foot sweep, the gancho
delighting his balanced grace, stubbed
into a delicate dash more beautiful
than beauty, our step together as one,
shaped to the music we’ve become…
But we do not touch. Nor does anyone
along this countertop. What has been
made real by what will never happen
is why I cannot move to hold him,
why we shuffle, why this is not heaven.