When My Mother Danced

By Denise R. Weuve

My father left for the weekend.
This time to Seattle,
and as usual she had pressed
his cotton blue shirt and put
a perfect crease in his work jeans.
It was too neat
for a man who would spend the entire
time behind the wheel.
My grandmother came over
from the community center
where she had played Bingo,
and was the proud winner
of four Farmer John’s chickens,
and three pounds of extra lean ground meat.
To celebrate, my mother
went over to the pop top stereo
removed the plastic doily,
and selected an outdated 8-track.
She danced with my Grandmother
dipping her, and turning her
as if she were a music box ballerina,
the way my father would have
with her, if he was ever around.
But they were two women
who did not need permission
to pin their paisley dresses
above their knees, whisper
curse words, or dance in each others arms.
They put the coffee table up on the sofa
and showed off the Sugar Foot,
Twisted until they wore holes
through the carpet, then Two-Stepped
to Eddie Rabbit’s “Traveling man.”