By Josh Dugat
I learned to dance by standing
on my mother’s feet, pretending
that our kitchen was the smoke-
filled Broken Spoke. The ceiling
was as low. The dish soap
and Diet Coke played forty-two
with coupons for their dominoes.
They stopped to watch us lope
across the brick to London
Homesick Blues. My fingers clung
onto her beltloops when she spun
me, set me down and sung
the line that taught my legs to match:
step-together, step-touch, step-back.
I outgrew my boots. My partner
dropped me off at homecoming,
a whole, swollen gymnasium
of children playing mothers,
trying to tell each other’s
bodies what to do. The lights
returned their childhood, half-
turned. I waited by the punch
alone. She picked me up
and brought me home.
Born and raised in Austin, Texas, Josh Dugat teaches, fishes, and two-steps in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, alongside his wife and son.