By Shana Hill

Can we play like we did at ten?
Hula-hooping on the yard patch
when we were are all still friends

I almost won that hula match,
moved hoop from neck in sway
to chest then down my back

Let’s dance in the yard of clay
The soil’s full of rocks
we’ll plant our feet on curtains stained

we found in the cellar box
Dance in floods and dungarees
floor puddles will be ominous

I want this song to make you sing
to beat staccato, sing false falsetto
the vinyl to scratch from jumping

We spin round the way the record goes
What does the singer say?
Investigate the liner notes,

drop the needle set to play
We’re worn but we won’t stop our swing
Dance Bump, the Freak, YMCA

Do I still flutter when I sing?
Not cry from mournful lines but bray
in hootenanny, celebrated in a ring

like the tune we’d beg my dad to play
as crickets soft above the scatter
The piano rag without a name, so briefly played

 

About the Author

Shana Hill’s poetry has appeared in Naugatuck River Review, Ocean State Review, San Pedro River Review, and Slipstream Magazine. Her poem, “Tied,” published by the museum of americana, was a 2020 Best of The Net finalist. She is a co-editor on Essential Voices: A COVID-19 Anthology (WVU Press, July 2023). Shana is a member of the Poemworks Collective of Boston and is the founder of Poetica Pastor, a business which assists writers in the publication process.