Short Story: Dancing With Lola

Short Story: Dancing With Lola

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What rare woman can dance like Lola does,

With a little light and just enough of dark.

Is it something about the look of her,

her jewelled ears and smooth skin,

made honey colour by layers of sun.

And the way she had of being still.

Lola and I have danced,

sweating, naked in the moonlight,

Where the cool waters dash the rocks

and cover us in spray.

Lola, a butterfly in a web of black

knew how dancers moved and stayed in step.

We withdrew from the dance.

We became part of the hungry urgent grass.

Lola, leaning on me,

And I on the earth.

Is this the moment all dancers dance for,

as the hunger of our passions merge us.

The cherry blossoms that died that night

were so beautiful in their dying.

I did not weep, but rather held my breath,

as we rise bleeding and strive for cover.

Moonlight by the lake and Lola quite,

pale, in uncertain silence,

her words like whispers, creeping through a sea shell.

Then, like yellow moths on the water, we dip.

The Moon shows the blown ripples

out there, beyond the men’s shelter,

where only clouds and wings are white,

as her mystic and amorous hands touch my contented flesh.

Who watching could say,

if God did send the morning early,

which silver streak is Lola’s dress,

and which among the circles is Lola’s breast.

Our unborn sins stayed in their corners,

for Lola and I were not mourners.

The days when rumours bothered me are over,

But I learned a lot from dancing with Lola, my first lover.

I have shared my thoughts,

thrown my morals aside,

Lola’s not here,

So.... I could have lied.