My Only Folk Dance
We try to do it right, weekly
and at weekend camps.
My only true one,
despedida high in the Andes
with bonfire and charangas,
flutes, pipes, rattles, drums
come from a neighboring village,
everyone danced.
No one did it right.
We whirled in pairs
or in circle with the children
shouting derecha and izquierda.
Our nurses feared brain damage
for the infants slapped
to and fro bound in rebozos
on their dervish mothers' backs.
We were the folk
and the night was dark
and all our imperfections
gaily glittered in firelight.