|
|
|
|
|
Andrena Zawinski
Location: San Francisco Bay Area
Email: andrenaz@earthlink.net
Website: http://www.poetrymagazine.com/zawinski
Pushlished In: Nimrod International, Paterson Literary Review, Quarterly West, Santa Clara Review, Talking River, Gulf Coast, PoetryMagazine, DisquietingMuses, ZuzusPetals, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, etc.
Books: Traveling in Reflected Light
Awards: Kenneth Patchen competition winner for a full book of poetry from Pig Iron Press, Allen Ginsberg honors from Paterson Literary Review, Poetry of Social Concern from Black Bear Review, Sarasota Dancing Poetry for Free Verse
TANGO: SURVIVING SEPTEMBER
(a birthday poem)
Day curls inward under, shadow-side
angels taking shape in new moon clouds
of this late day sky.
My one-eyed potted pansies double over,
their flushed blooms cheek to cheek
bowed before summer's last winds
moving in.
It is my birthday. You ask me for a dance.
We square off in a geometry of movement.
I court carefully steps I may have forgotten.
You move me
across the roof deck like a natural breeze on
ocean sands the summer seaside we wandered
lazy and barefooted, as if nothing was left
to be done.
Gulls chortle in a traffic-copter's whirl,
the sandbirds' whistles in the tinny chimes,
the clap of the shade umbrellas's skirt flap
a distant train rattling the tracks.
But this
tango,
the deep dark brood of each slide,
hand in hand, hip to hip; on each step,
quirky point, your eyes meet mine
like a kiss about to happen. South of the border
my heart
speaks
as Gardel sings el dia que me quieras, and we
are danzarins, you my Buenos Aires, tropical
island, pansy surviving September, love
lettering the page in a little café, backstreet
retreat, my umbrella in the rain.
The first birthday you wouldn't let me live
through without celebration was a pen for
my writing over Shadyside cocktails. There was
a stroll through art in the park we couldn't get
and silver hearts
still tinkling at my ears.
The next, old friends ushering in what would've
been a buried year. That one a creaking bed
in a Panhandle inn, your hand across
my loud delight. You move me.
You clutch my waist, twist my hips
and all our long walks whistle in on the back
of inland winds in a city where love immigrates
without baggage. Even in Pittsburgh,
a patch of Caribbean blue sneaks in.
And I can grow pansies in my palms. But you,
you are a song in my head,
one that just wont quit.