the woman who thought she was more than a samba

the woman who thought she was more than a samba

the woman who thought she was more than a samba rode underground trains dressed up for dancing, as usual

never mind that she looked good succulent like peaches, tattoos on her skin enough to make most men sign

rats strung out on methadone rode underground trains with her, rats in a trance scratching balancing oblivious children on thier laps

rats in a trance scratching asleep ears glued to radios blaring city music, metallic abrasive hard city music

the woman who thought she was more than a samba rode underground trains, terrified

she'd forget how to dance

her dreams were filled with ghosts, young men she knew who danced with each other consumed by ambiguous dilemmas

grinding their narrow hips to snakelike city music, metallic abrasive hard city music. grinding their narrow hips against her sloping, naked back like buffaloes shedding their fur against a tree, whispering - "it's a shame you aren't a man...you have so much man in you."

in brazil the women samba only with their legs. their faces are somber and their upper torsos never move

in haiti people draw themselves without arms and don't seem to dance at all

exuding matinee idol ambience the young men she knew wore white and sported moustaches "we are a tropical people" they remind her, "the most innovative in the universe" they gyrated desperately and stayed drunk in bars "we're in, this year"

it's a shame i weren't a man and who's the woman here? she oftern asked herself. sometimes she screamed: i'm older than you think. i'm getting so sick of you. i can't even remember your names. you all look the same...

she fell in love once and the wounds never healed. it was romance old as the hills. predictable in its maze. what medieval tapestry he wove to keep her still

gazelles loped past their window and veils kept out the sun. she had her own take on things, her perfume-scented version of the story. never mind that he always won, leaving unfinished poems under her bed. orchestra strung upside down from the ceiling. traces of blood as souvenirs of their exclusive combat zone

the woman who thought she was more than a samba carried her solitude around in pouches made of chinese silk. changing her jewelry with each new lover. insisting they move with sullen grace. stressing the importance of style on a dance floor. how arrogantly they might hold up their heads

her dreams were filled with ghosts perched on her bony wrists, grinning gargoyles who menaced her every step and wouldn't let her go

she longed to be her mother in a silver dress. some softly fading memory lifting her legs in a sinuous tango