The Love Spiral

My arms started the spiral that flowed to my waist and down, down my legs, finally turning my feet. The hard soles of the red shoes make it one liquid, perfect movement, a movement where time and thought hold their breath. After the sighing stop, I drop my arms, and I am grateful to be in this body and to have this gift.
I got an e-mail from a woman who prides herself on her church-going faith. The note said we should throw all Hispanics out of this country. The note was filled with hatred. She has taken to her breast a pale, chill comfort and missed the perfection of movement; she has not opened herself to warmth and joy. She feels Hispanics should all speak English, that treasuring their own soaring language is an affront.
This hatred has drawn scratches on her soul, and she bleeds one drop at a time.
I raise my arms and begin another ocho, a perfect one with healing power. If this woman were to let the thump and heartbreak of the bandoneon enter her and carry her off, she would fall in love, and her soul, her wounded soul, would heal.