El baile comenzó
en el Hidalgo Hall.
Salvador, dressed in
a zoot suit salsa,
dashed across the wooden floor,
jitterbugging the Boogie-Woogie,
bugle-boy danza.
Damas
lined the wall
in high-heeled, hair rolls.
They hummed tunes
and smiled giggles,
as if they didn’t feel
the stares that came their way.
“Swing a little closer
mi muchachita in blue.
Come a little closerrrr…”
Las Black Widows made
their grand entrance at the hall.
Estas damas were from LAAAAAA.
Machas, full of power,
cuchillo breasts,
long-legged black hose.
Their straight-edge dares
froze the swollen
dance floor
and parted the sea
to where their men stood,
menacing leopaaarrrds.
Salvador danced with María
who was not yet fifteen, but full
of wanting to be…
Her mother watched.
The molote on Doña Juana’s head
was a beacon that didn’t work so well.
“María, swing a little closer,
mi corazón,
niña preciosa.
I want you, my beauty.
Be mine…”
Manuel tap, tapped Salvador’s shoulder
for a dance with María.
Salvador refused.
La plaita ensued.
No more Boogie-Woogie,
only fists
that slammed Salvador
under a painted bench.
María was grabbed by her mother.
Salvador spent the night in jail.
No more danza, no more Boogie-Woogie, bugle boy.
Two weeks later…
the dish ran away with the spoon.