Fire fills the dark with sparks
and Romas clap-clap to the beat
of her feet, bare like brown bread,
as they thump-thump on the dust of the campground.
Wild hair in the air and a rough-colored
skirt swirl and add to the rhythm
she lives. Gold glints in the flame
and embers jump
snap! as tambourine and bangles jangle
shicka-shicka then she l
e
a
p
s
and lands on the other side, fingers
click-clicking overhead where her smile
shines bright white like the sun that’s her
star – But then a royal grey-and-blue battle cry sounds
not like a song they sing; they yell and cry to the moon,
their mother. Now swirling red blue yellow

black
is her mission to her country where a
king points the blame to her flight
so she cries Sanctuary! to his grey-and-blue men
with the swords. But there’s no dancing in a
cathedral where bells toll, Gong. Gong.
and her skirts rustle hush to a halt
while her feet, bare like brown bread,
pad softly and stop.
Before the Holy Mother
who smiles benignly, she kneels
and she dreams she is back in her camp
where she danced, where her people sang
like nightingales and swayed with her,
matching the way she led them
upward to a place where dancing
high-step
and whipping out
a skirt was better than wearing
rough-colored canvas out and
pound-pounding was not prohibited
of the people with bare brown bread feet
and wild hair and fire in their eyes…
now her fire licks like kits in an
alley towards the sky, hot like a
brand in icy winter: Notre Dame needed a dancer
like her.