Woody smoke seeps into the yard

from the boys smoking cigars

down by the water’s edge.

 

Haze softening sharp complexions,

distorting features,

making strangers look  familiar,

extravagant, otherworldly.

 

I chase him around the big rocks by the water,

begging him to teach me.

He comes close

and shows me how to make my breath dance in the air.

Below the balcony,

the guests converge.

We twirl around

invisible problems,

stomp on tension,

and step around family friends 

who came just to get unflatteringly drunk.

We dance and dance until our problems

are drenched in darkness.

 

The boy slips out of

the throng of flailing arms and legs

and into the forest.

I scamper after him,

tripping on mulberry roots and leaves,

blinking away nymphs and fairies.

We sit on the boulder up on the hill

and watch these silly silhouette actors

perform their muted play.

 

his words twist into the air

to meet mine waiting there.

He says their performance alludes to

a greater dance, of good and evil

and something about a maypole.

But I just think

that every family has some secrets.