feminism

i said the other day
i need to write a poem about pride

i read today
an article about a metaphorical dance

i remember when the summer was summer
when we sat outside
curled up to our knees
on the cement front porch at my
great grey saltbox house
long enough to watch the sun
and then the pink flaming of the sun
and then the silver disappearing of the sun
and then the blueblackness of night
counting the stars in the warmth
waiting for luck to send us beautiful meteors

when i wasn�t writing papers
and when you weren�t packing a sack lunch
for your night job
we�d get in your old car
and speed to where the city lights were
and where the fancy restaurants painted
neon on the summernight pavement under
the shoes of left-over hippies and
the shoes of college students partying and
the shoes of those in search of old records
or leopard seat covers

we would dance there
as twilight waxed night
and if you remember
as the shining floorboards shone
and as we learned how to wiggle our hips
i had a hard time learning to follow
and you were unsure enough to lead

but we gave it up
you led and i followed
it made sense beyond the classroom

we learned not to step on each other�s toes
i forgot to envy you your creative position
and you fell natural after all
we began to make things fun and easy
and the laughing that we would do
on the cream bur-bur carpet of the family room
on the great grey saltbox house
as the cd player crooned our songs and
no one watching us practice would quite understand
the way we would sweat and
the way we would double over in laughter
smiling in the disappearing sunlight
in the wide wide windows

i don�t envy you your leading
but i bet that there are those that do
i would tell them
well how do you expect then to laugh
and to swing the night away

copyright 2001 by devon