Dancing in the kitchen alone.
Imperative that no one can see me.
Sassy dance moves on
Top of the table.
Rather carefully, it’s not quite stable.
Attending a cypher inside my mind.
Clapping in the distance…
Tapping my feet with no resistance.
In my kitchen, I can dance and be free.
Often this happens when I’m alone.
Narrow-minded and in the zone.
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The Harvest
Koyi wobbled to her shabby wood and straw kaz, holding her machete and an old burlap bag with some yams. Someone had laid another basket in front of the patched up door—rose apples today. They were a bright reddish pink, looking waxy and crisp, just the way she liked them. The culprit knew her very well. Those would be crunchy, juicy and sweet—she could tell—but she gathered all the will she could muster and pushed the basket aside to enter her home. She had already said no repeatedly and would not be taking bribes.
By Lily Séjor3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
I enjoyed this very much. I love to dance!
That was lovely
Your title brought to mind the song Cueca Solo , great words from you