March to November moves clockwise to the
prairie songs of eight cowboy-hatted men.
Dancers circle about in a kaleidoscope of hues,
bells and sparkly rhinestones. Among this
concert of colors, one girl, wearing her grandma’s
simple jingle dress, closes her eyes on honor beats,
dancing church as the tin cones make medicine.
She thinks no one sees her.
Every Saturday he dons his father’s roach and single bustle,
moving counter clockwise because that is tradition.
He dances for grandpa who cannot. He never takes a
number because the drum is not a lottery.
His vest doesn’t glisten so he rarely catches the judges’ eye.
Still a handful of young hopefuls watch his
every step, coup and stop.
He thinks no one sees him.
When the round dance sings it way between
contest and cake walk, they make their way,
slide stepping with the head lady, slide stepping
with the head man. Then like kismet, at the eclipse
of the men and women’s lines, she notices his old-style
bead work with the fat, chubby beads in muted colors.
He marvels at her lone braid and scarlet scarf
en lieu of a fan. He wonders what her family name is.
© Asani Charles 4/2/13
Life in Print 