They were women after all,
long haired women that lined the floors,
dressed in baby blue
with hands of midnight and
ears flowing out with liquid madrigals.
I stepped carefully around them,
afloat their miserable jazz,
around their inflamed heads,
attempting to avoid their contamination.
I skipped rope over their cords of whipping hair,
as bowls came smashing the floor
of that overpriced galaxy,
the hushed songs of their voices
ruined by my big sway.
I managed to escape the circumference
of their daunting egos.
Their movements quieted to just the tapping
of their feet mixing with a strange jig.
The sounds they made swirled alive,
a mass hypnotic pink and peach and red
dashing the air
dancing the edges of their
skirts! Skirts! Skirts!
April Michelle Bratten is a writer currently living in North Dakota. She is the co-editor of the online literary journal Up the Staircase (www.upthestaircase.org).