Texas Tango
By Iris Gribble-Neal

Raul won’t let me leave until I learn
to tango. He says boleo and I follow my foot
up as if the leg attaches to the long
blonde, as if there really is a heaven until I think
it won’t come down but feels like her foot
stretching for the gas pedal, measuring
the miles between telephone poles
as if it matters how far she has come,
how far any of us have come. She called
to say she saw you leaving the Alamo
with all its bloody honor. At least she thought
it was you; she couldn’t see your eyes.

I say I’m too old, but Raul says no
one is ever too old for the tango. He says
gancho, and I wrap my leg around
him and feel the sweat between us
like love. The blonde feels sweat in her
motel room outside Killeen with only
a swamp cooler and no ice, wearing nothing
but rhinestones like chains around her neck.
I hear static on the line, dry lightning,
and she says she listens for your motorcycle
idling in the parking lot with no vacancy
stuttering above, missing like a broken heart.

Raul says parada and I watch his foot
travel toward mine like long distance,
like a thunderstorm, an electrical charge.
We are the only bodies in focus and even
the phone ringing on the bar is only
playing counterpoint to the dance.
It’s the blonde, of course, coughing on enough
dry desert to turn into the dust you left
hanging over the road. She says you’re not
alone leaving, a woman loving your back.

Arrestre, arrestre. Raul drags my feet like you
drag my heart, and I lean south
toward the border I’m afraid to cross.
The blonde drags me over phone lines once
thought as extinct as the rhinestones
better than stars reflecting the sum
of your eyes. Call me. Call me.
The young woman drags you like a magnet
arrested between poles. Raul and I tango
between night and day, dancing on sweat
running like rivers between my breasts.

Raul steps into my space and I cry
sacada. The blonde drives into the space
of Chihuahua Desert, eyes filled with Marfa
Lights. I back into Pecos and Marathon;
she opens a P.O. box in Valentine thinking
her heart might be there but finds
only hot West Texas wind. You, you,
are your eyes finally laughing? Boleo, and we
reach for the black phone ringing on the bar
freezing us in whatever space we can find.