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Everything You Need to Know You Learned
at the High School Dance
by Amy Miller
Even the ugly boy can dance.
Even with the chicken neck,
checked shirt, shoulders
like a slim bud vase—even he
holds out his hand
and music starts.
Later, your chin
brushing the edge of his collar,
you will see the other girls
slow dance too,
each one a pool of breath
a boy ripples. You feel him
on your thigh,
the easy yes
his arm encircles.
You have no thought
of tomorrow, of home—
he is being,
you are dancing.
He spins you at the end
and you follow,
lights a blur,
the prettiest girl
with new-found feet.
He thanks you and turns—
too fast, you later think—
to a girl who is sitting,
a girl you know.
She is effortless and kind
and small and wearing
a short blue dress.
And they dance and you
and a torrent of girls
head for the chairs
but you keep going
straight out
to the frost-breath parking lot
and you stand there
pondering the hoods of cars
and wondering if she's been on one
and if so, what
she was feeling then, what
she felt like later, riding home,
gears at the mercy of his hand,
her head against the window,
the radio turned up loud.
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