The third poem of Donald Mace Williams’ melodic-ekphrasis The Reconstructions tetraptych on/in music by different composers, published in The Decadent Review (a Beethoven, a Vaughan Williams, this Ravel, and a Brahms).
The open walls let evening air
into the dance
and she is the dance.
The outburst isn’t thunder
but she, demanding
why, tenacious, intense.
Music, amnesiac, again,
but the past pulsing
beneath. All he will say
is because. And the dance now
wilder, too crazy
for Q and A.
One immerses oneself
in flingings, grimaces.
But ah (outside now), ¿porqué?
A night bird, the moon,
whispers, then silence,
a look, an uncertain kiss.
Daytime: machines, and he,
watchful, between. The dance
pounds; steel arms hook and release.