“Granada for a tango festival. I was walking to the bathroom when this young hip black man caught my eye. He was siting in the lobby and looked up at me as I passed him. For some reason he caught my eye…what can I say. Then i decided I was going to ask someone I would never normally ask to dance. Just for shits and giggles (this is my strategy for keeping myself entertained here at the Spanish Milongas) So I went up to him, and started speaking to him in Spanish and he said, oh no, no comprendo. And I knew right away that he spoke English. Then I found out he was from new york and some tap dancer. I tried to dance with him and found that he must be a very good tap dancer for he had very strong muscles in his arms! Maybe you can write a poem about it.”

When I dance in the milonga,
I save my steps for special men,
the tango delicacies.

Some milongueros test me
with a deep rhythm of power
rigid moves, ancient grasping.

The young ones dance lightly
watching my dress flutter
swaying and sinking into beats.

During the cortina break,
a man met me with his eyes.
we talked in the hallway.

He brought new york here:
his clothes and voice,
a prize in Spanish land.

His dance was muscle car strong,
but it was not tango in full:
so the passion unbloomed- abrubt.