For Judith

A cactus stands on the windowsill in the living room,
And its arms disco in different directions,
Casting shadows across the floor that blink
Like sheets on a clothes line, reflections in a puddle -
Forget the wind and the sun and just breathe.
One night I stand beside the window and I begin to
Disco too, pointing my fingers at the cactus:
We are family, I sing.
​The cactus is still, unflinching.
I peer closer.
Are your arms actually circling in small - no,
Minute - undetectable fractions
Of space and time, rippling the air like the tiniest of
Wind mills? I say.
​Have you been dancing all this time, my friend,

And hoping I'd miss it, not wanting me to see?
The cactus glows in the moonlight, unmoving.
I crouch down and examine
Its green limousine of a torso,
Doors open, red carpets out:
No pictures, please. 
​Then I throw out my arms and whirl myself around,
Spinning in place, lowering my voice to a feather’s
Whisper:
I hope you remember to lose yourself now and then,
I say. I tilt my head back and spin faster.
The room blurs.
And when I stop to face the cactus I see its body
Waving, arms swaying back and forth, and I tell myself:
It’s just a dream.