She danced at the party..
Denim fitting loosly over her backside..
Just as loose as her hips moved and her eyes juggled to keep up with everyone in the room..
Just as loose as the braid her Dad put in her hair when Ma was too sick to move..
She looked at the boy behind her..
Looked at how tight his eyes were closed, and how flared his nostrils were, inhaling all the perfumes of the girls that danced in front of him..And making them into one special perfume
Her feet were glued to the floor..
She didn't need them 'cause her hips were walking for her..
She had a new tongue that New York let her borrow..
Nothing like the tongue that she had when she was a foreigner, an outkast, a citizen of the Dominican Republic..
She left the party 2 hours before it ended..With the boy that danced behind her..
She kissed him with her new tongue, tasting 100 different kinds of perfumes
I wonder who gave her that new tongue..
Who taught her how to talk like that and forget her Dominican dialect and accent..
I wonder if the boy with the many perfumes attatched to his tongue tasted her old tongue..
The tongue that held Bachata music, two french braids, and sweet bread...