after Crying—Roy Orbison
Down on Magnolia the oaks have turned.
One day green flags, next day tanned leather.
Deep-lobed, shapely leaves shudder,
drop, stick on dampened sidewalk
where I place one foot on each leaf
to follow their dance-step diagram:
slide, step, slide, breeze ruffling
drying leaves, air scrubbed,
I close my eyes and hear Roy Orbison
“Cry-y-y-y-ing o-ver you” in the cool
Arrowhead evening, some boy’s breath
warm in my 14-year-old hair,
dancing under the stars, step glide step,
step glide step, my sticky wings still folded,
my legs just free of the tight cocoon
of Barrington Avenue Parks and Rec box step,
one-together two-together three-together four,
wooden, stiff-armed 8-year-olds compelled
to watch our feet, trace a box on brown linoleum.
How could we imagine the heat and throb
of 1976 Seattle, “You should be dan-cing, yeah!”
inflaming the hormone-thickened air of Shelly’s Leg,
where, for a while, we shed our shoes, our masks,
danced with anyone to Donna Summer, Wild Cherry, LaBelle,
all so alive, our urgent hips, gliding steps, innocent
leaves unfurled — not yet, in our millions, fallen.
One day green flags, next day tanned leather.
Deep-lobed, shapely leaves shudder,
drop, stick on dampened sidewalk
where I place one foot on each leaf
to follow their dance-step diagram:
slide, step, slide, breeze ruffling
drying leaves, air scrubbed,
I close my eyes and hear Roy Orbison
“Cry-y-y-y-ing o-ver you” in the cool
Arrowhead evening, some boy’s breath
warm in my 14-year-old hair,
dancing under the stars, step glide step,
step glide step, my sticky wings still folded,
my legs just free of the tight cocoon
of Barrington Avenue Parks and Rec box step,
one-together two-together three-together four,
wooden, stiff-armed 8-year-olds compelled
to watch our feet, trace a box on brown linoleum.
How could we imagine the heat and throb
of 1976 Seattle, “You should be dan-cing, yeah!”
inflaming the hormone-thickened air of Shelly’s Leg,
where, for a while, we shed our shoes, our masks,
danced with anyone to Donna Summer, Wild Cherry, LaBelle,
all so alive, our urgent hips, gliding steps, innocent
leaves unfurled — not yet, in our millions, fallen.
Twice nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards, J.I. Kleinberg is an artist, poet, and freelance writer whose poems have been published in print and online journals worldwide. She lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and posts occasionally on Instagram @jikleinberg.