J Kelsey Wood | College of the Holy Cross

Night Dances

He touches the guitar as the jaguar moves,
as night lets fall her perfumed hair.
The sweet notes drop like milk.

Her joy is quick as indrawn breath,
my breath is her breath, the lyric is one
with the dance, the stroke of the heart

in the voice can shake her to tears, to silent
showers of stars, suspension of breath,
milk of the moon.

But my silence does not end the performance.
He wrote the score, and they have played this stage
together before. A rattle of castanets;

she returns her favor to him.
The night is his in the pause
before the end, in this strumming

so sudden I cannot hear, finally his
in the loud and agonal beat
of the maestro's finger on the guitar.