Watching A Friend Dance in Bill T. Jones' You Walk

It's a dance about the legacy of Rome.
My mind is on Cape Coast.

It isn't because one of the dancers flew
with us to Ghana. It's not that our group split
when we went to Kumasi. How we left friends
in the capital, reunioned at Cape Coast. I can't forget
how ghosts wailed in time with the ocean's breaking,
our meeting in the dungeon, our shame about the smiles
that kept spilling. How else could we greet the word
from Accra or the festival below? The cool sun
or the horizon, misty as Hollywood's?

But remembering is not about these things. I am
watching a friend balance and crane her neck,
pretend she isn't the star. I can almost see her
see me watching. Her blank stare, her movement
in unison with other courtly bodies. Only strangers
shock me home. The arch of their arms, their feet,
familiar steps. The blow of removal, of reach
and kick. Desperate eyes and mouth. The sounds
that do not escape the body. This is what reminds me.

No matter the metaphor,
you know your story when you see it.