Grace Cram
Woody smoke seeps into the yard
from the boys smoking cigars
down by the water’s edge.
Haze softening sharp complexions,
distorting features,
making strangers look familiar,
extravagant, and otherworldly.
I chase him around the big rocks by the water,
begging him to teach me.
He comes close
and shows me how to make my breath dance in the air.
Below the balcony,
the guests converge
as we twirl around
invisible problems,
stomp on tension,
and step around family friends
who came just to get unflatteringly drunk.
We dance and dance until our problems
are drenched in darkness.
The boy slips out of
the throng of flailing arms and legs
and into the forest.
I scamper after him,
tripping on mulberry roots and leaves,
blinking away nymphs and fairies.
We sit on the boulder up on the hill
and watch these silly silhouette actors
perform their muted play.
his words twist into the air
to meet mine waiting there.
He says their performance alludes to
a greater dance, of good and evil
and something about a maypole.
But I just think
that every family has some secrets.