Tushar Jain
Autumn 2017 * Moon Tango she rushes to the dorm window with her clunky telescope, feet brisk, light as air, palms perspiring, like soda bottles in summer, and nostrils tingling from the scent of pine the clouds scatter, pigeons drift in droves, wasps lope across puddles, and the gurgling of dragonflies fans out in the air; the girl fidgets, trains the telescope at the moon, breathes, and peeps the man, she notes, wears a stiff-collared tux, with satin lapels, a red bowtie, and his hair, a cornflower yellow, is pulled back in a bun; the woman’s in a bubbly chiffon gown, with dressy shoes, amber eyes, and a pearl choker, a honeysuckle white as they twirl, tumbleweeds wheel through the dry land, little blue men drift out of craters to watch, rapt, and very soon, the numbing cold fills up with harp music, which the books say, is the music of the spheres the lovers flow, dance – her legs weave and thread through his, his toes mark circles in the cruddy moon cheese, and they move, as if in bed- sheets, and the voyeur at her window, the timid girl turns red and green as the hours go by, and dawn worries four o’ clock with morning light, and November fog laps up at the stars, beads dew onto beds of marigold, the dancers fade into daybreak, waving at the girl, who snoozes at her window, her telescope balanced like a child, at the sill |
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