Andrea Peralta-Villa ’27
I never knew how to dance
to tambourines that split the air,
trumpets coughing out orquídeas.
I watched in awe
women with hips wide as cuíca drums,
pounding rhythm with every sway;
men shrugging off tempests like sweat.
But the glass-boned guest knew,
her feet drumming the floor
like birds against a window.
Left, cross, back, twist
nearly flying away
while I stay planted.
I let her rise,
swallow my brown envy whole,
until my own hips remember
swaying like cornstalks.
finally in rhythm.