True Mexican or not, let’s open our shirts

And dance, a spark of heels

Chipping at the dusty cement.  The people

Are shiny like the sea, turning

To the clockwork of rancheras,

The accordion wheezing, the drum-tap

Of work rising and falling.

Let’s dance with our hats in hand.

The sun is behind the trees,

Behind my stutter of awkward steps

With a woman who is a brilliant arc of smiles,

An armful of falling water. Her skirt

Opens and closes. My arms

Know no better but to flop

On their own, and we spin, dip

And laugh into each other’s faces—

Faces that could be famous

On the coffee table of my abuelita.

But grandma is here, at the park, with a beer

At her feet, clapping

And shouting, “Dance, hijo, dance!”

Laughing, I bend, slide, and throw up

A great cloud of dust,

Until the girl and I are no more.