Dorquita

A poem about my friend Dorca

Dorca Miller

Your mind is clouded with the weather of 95 years
and your mouth is full of spit
you refuse to release into the sink

You mean to get to the apartment door
your shrinking body is incapable 
but your will is ferocious

One stuttering step after another, 
we shuffle to a trembling tempo 
that only you can hear

Dancing backward to your fretting lead,
I’m the Ginger in this pas de deux
helping you take a bow and spit into the hallway 

Pale blue carpet streams past your feet.
Does it take you back
to Puerto Rico’s warm Atlantic waves?

We plod our way back inside,
herky-jerky movement
slowing to the beat of an August afternoon

And then, to bed, your hammock swinging toward tomorrow
rocking you in restless dreams
dressed in sunlit memories

Tonight, maybe tomorrow night
you’ll creak out of bed on faltering legs
inching back to your front door  

In the dark drift of shadows, 
you’ll patiently await your late sister  
out past curfew with her newest beau

Gliding in on melodies of San Juan and youth,
Lucy will reach for your hand,
drawing you onto the floor

You will arise gracefully, gratefully 
blithely joining her 
in neverending dance