Saturday, May 22, 2010

Tango: Speaking in her Accent


Near the border of France
I enter a milonga in Saarbrücken.
She is French,
We speak in German.
But our mutual language is tango.

The music starts.
Our embrace, melds two hearts,
Two cultures.
And like tango, a dance of immigrants,
Our souls transmigrate to a place we both have never been.
Our movements interpret a tango both familiar and new.

My feet had spoken this same tango in my kitchen two days before.
But now I speak with a strong French accent, her accent,
Her way of making what I say different.
New to me, new to her.

Now I lead her down a familiar path,
But she opens a gate to a new place.
I see a French garden with a fountain.
I have never been to this place.
Neither has she,
Although I was sure it was her favorite place.

I speak with the accent of each tanguera I hold.
The magic of tango is the moment I am no longer just me.


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