Jig

Doesn’t he cut a rug indeed,

doing that dance-less gyrating

on top of every grave he comes to near;

doesn’t he stomp on the heads of the dead

dead-on; doesn’t he bother and, boy,

doesn’t he know it.

Under the whistling willows in the warmer parts

where the ground has been sliced like bread, and buttered

with the guts and tears of later additions,

and the wooden benches and their metal ‘No Siting’.

I peeped it through the slated windows

of the church, gazing out towards the graveyard-

and there he was doing that stupid choreography,

leaning on the headstones for support and form.

Everyone else pretended not to have seen,

but I threw down the book and jumped from the pew,

and hoisted my skirts above my head,

and ran out seeing stars.

Left-and-right-and-left-and-right-and

bothering all the ancestors. I did not leave

a tip in his outstretched, upturned hat, oh no,

but he continued- his hairy hands and hooves,

and horns, and two-foot frame,

dancing and dancing, and choking with laugh,

and dancing till he might be lame.

Do not join in! I prayed to myself,

to the dead ones beneath the ground.

I prayed they remain in their stoic sleep

despite the little monster up the ground.

Don’t! I prayed harder and heaved

my sodden breast up and down.

But- too late-

I heard the chattering of bones

and knew they were dancing that jig

by their thousands, under stones.