They were both running
from something.
people
places
images
memories. They used
different tactics
to escape
what they refused to
recall unless alcohol
had replaced most of
the liquid in their system.
She would pick up her
red sash and
frolic underneath the
moon goddess, pounding
her feet on the dirt until
she became the dust and
would fly off when
the Northern wind picked up.
He would lock the household,
securing the shudders
and recline on his mattress,
tipping back the rum
until her face blurred and
he forgot the New World
and its temptations.
They were both running
from something. He, a
reluctantly abandoned
lover and she the restraints
placed on her people because
of her faith. They had never
run with a partner. He had
never considered it until she
appeared. Until they dashed to
the port and bribed a sarcastic
pirate. Until she danced under
the moon goddess for the crew and
he saw her. She burst into a
humid rouge before him and continued
dancing, losing herself in the steps.
She wrapped her henna
fingertips round his heart and
tugged him to his feet, dragging him
to dance the moon's promenade.
They were like trapeze artists,
tangled in each other's tangent limbs
as they swayed, morphing into
silver silhouettes. When they
sashayed across the seascape
he no longer felt the need to
sprint off. It paused his chest,
resetting his heart.
She came to the conclusion
that dancing was not only
an escape, but a discovery.
She was his firelight, his
resonating melody. He
was her red sash, the
one she hid in the
crevasses of her razor limbs
and kept alive by the pounding
of her feet and his hands
navigating across her hips
in the heat of the dance
underneath the moon goddess.