The Pants Dance
A brown pair of pants walking across the room. Is this the same pair of pants a spirit held up to my mother when she asked what sex I would be? My pants cower under the bed, cowardly pants. My pants swing on the clothesline. My pants follow me into the Voodoo Lounge. Stupid pants, I thought I told you to wait in the truck. You can dance with your pants. It’s called The Pants Dance. It’s a dance for old men. You are permitted to dance sitting in your chair waving your pants around your head.
Footnotes by Helen Brandenburg
We were best in the afternoon
Or was it the light that entranced,
or to sit, sulking in the bathtub like an angry
The rest is marzipan. The rest
statues of the temple. The rest
1 By love, we mean only that which occurs on Sundays between the hours of 3 and 5 pm—
Richard Garcia is the author of Rancho Notorious and The Persistence of Objects, from BOA Editions. His poems have appeared in The Georgia Review, Ploughshares, and Best American Poetry. He lives on James Island, SC, with his wife, poet Katherine Williams. His website is www.richardgarcia.info.
Helen Brandenburg, a native Charleston, SC, makes her living teaching English and creative writing. In a previous life, she was a ballet dancer and teacher/director. In her spare time, she and her heteronym run with the Long Table Poets, visit her children, and enjoy the company of Mischief the Cat.
In Posse: Potentially, might be . . .