Friday, September 2, 2011

Almost ten

There’s a restlessness
that stirs these feathers,
draws the mask tight
against our skins,
calls us to dance from the heart
of the leopard’s prowling night.

Our blood remembers
the thrumming of the drums,
the pounding of our feet
on the cold sand, wet
from the lapping
of the river’s briny tongue.

The girls, four of them
almost ten, tie sheer fabrics
taut around their waists
and pull each other’s hair
up into fountains, bound
with coloured cord, until
the hypnotic techno rhythm
compels them swaying,
rolling, undulating
into the inescapable groove.

Rachel Westfall
September 2, 2011

2 comments:

namingconstellations said...

This one hums and throbs wonderfully. I like how you chose such a specific (and perhaps at first glance minor) element of the poem and made it the title: it sums up the shape shift in a way it's tough to articulate. :)

RachelW said...

Thank you, Joseph :)