not even the slick mirrored surface
reflects a pinpoint of starlight.
Three dancers night blind
to their delicate feet, only feeling
supple boots that caress their toes.
Partners gone or never come,
three women prepare to dance
their becoming into lithe being,
to tango with pencil, keyboard,
leaking pens trailing black vines
of revision and uncertainty.
At round tables, white paper orbs
filled with flames that echoes the music
illuminate those restless circling satellites,
an audience insatiable for blood,
drama or explosion, wanting every stroke
of rough graphite to annihilate boredom.
But it’s only tango, and three women
dancing as sinuously as they can,
with all the grace they have left
after their day scalps them,
minds raw and churning with ideas
they can’t trap in the Tupperware
they’re either filling or washing
or putting away, power swirling
around and out the stainless steel
kitchen sink, the stove burning
imagination to a lump of cinder,
work kidnapping their clave heartbeats,
lost on the long commute
as they listen to audio books
they could have written.
— Lorraine Achey
A life-long autodidact, Lorraine has studied subjects ranging from anatomy & physiology to Zimbabwean mbira. Poetry writing started with her sixth grade teacher’s encouragement, and has continued with varying success over the years. She also writes for her personal and business blogs, and recently sent her first poetry collection, Diner on Dark’s Last Corner in search of a publisher. Lorraine has lived quietly with the stark beauty of the prairie of southwest Missouri/southeast Kansas all her life, and shares her home with three dynamic “Diva Dogs.” She works as a massage therapist when she is not reading, writing, or grooming dogs.