It’s primitive
It’s tribal
It’s ancient ritual
It’s Native American, and Aborigine
and African, and Tibetan and Druid
and Pacific Island and Scotts Highland.
It’s the dance
and its roots run as deep
as the human soul.
Often invoked to change the weather,
protect crops, mourn the dead, shape destiny
or plead for favor from
unseen spirits, Bodisattvas, or powerful gods.
It’s one am,
and I face an ancient malady
that baffles modern pediatric science
that causes childcare psychology experts
to simply shrug their shoulders
that causes a small infant boy
to scream and scream and scream
long, into the dark tired night.
I return to the old ways
to the dance.
Anando, constricted, bundled tightly
crying up against my chest
sweat dripping down the back of my neck
the only music
the rhythmic creaking groaning
from the old wooden floor.
While I circle round and around the room
fleeting spots of orange-yellow streetlight
momentarily illuminate us
as we move in front of the Buddha
and the flickering candles.
We dance together, my son and I
for what seems like hours.
Moving always forward
right foot 1-2-3-4
left foot 1-2-3-4
right foot 1-2-3-4
left foot 1-2-3-4
It’s like the Indian raindance
from those old Hollywood Westerns
and it continues on
This DANCE OF THE COLIC BABY
as the spinning clock
mocks the darkness
until his eyes finally close.
When I at last slump slowly
into white soft couch so careful
to keep him clutched up close,
I breathe deeply
and think about the dance
and all the ancient cultures
and what they believed.
I’m not really sure if it was
the warmth of my body
or the rhythm of my steps
of the filling and emptying
of my lungs
that calmed the child,
or if may have been
an inadvertent boon
from some powerful unknown force
but this,
is how they must have felt,
those ancient people.
Worn out, but grateful
just to have survived
another day.
By sextonpoet
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