My Dancing Feet

The house smells like my mother’s food,  

sounds like salsa 

and the voice Frankie Ruiz Jr.

I know this from my porch 

as I enter the key into the lock,

my bus waiting behind me. 

My bookbag in my hands,

my feet set to sprint,

my front door swings open. 

I take off my sneakers scuffing the ground. 

I am steps, I am seconds from my room

when warm arms grasp my waist. 

My mother pulls me into the kitchen

where the radio sits playing 

a complex beat I don’t understand.

Her feet move in an unfamiliar rhythm, 

and I can feel her hips swaying against my stiff ones

as she pulls me to her

along the kitchen floor

my feet clumsily trying to mimic hers

and yet I laugh.

These dancing feet take with me through life 

as I stumble on them 

tripping and falling. 

At the family reunion I hold my baby sister

how my mother once held me,

my feet masterily taming the beat

as hers stumble clumsily.