I Will Die Dancing

I will die dancing, falling from the arms of my last partner onto a floor scuffed by the heels of line-dancing Texans, into the fine dust left by the soles of flamenco, salsa, tango.

Before I die, I must have the ultimate smooth partner––bending me into the music, folding me neatly in predictable thirds so I can fit snugly into the envelope of death.  Play for me no dirge, no sad memento of my life, but rather, “I’ve got friends in low places” or “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.”

And let those who carry my body do so in a line dance, one hand holding me above them down the street, the other clutching a margarita or a Dos Equis.

I always wanted a wild life, wild soul, but danced from the polite part of me my mother bred.  Now in the second act of my life, I want to find my wild self and let it carouse me, plummet me, skid me through the ending chapters so I slide off the page just before the book slaps shut––trapped out in the cold with the fast music beating its wings, cooling my flushed face, fast-pulsing head, back sticky with the perspiration of movement to the music that has escaped from the book into the wider world. Music with breath and hands to lift me up above stumbling feet and faltering tongues.

If death is coming, I want to make love to it. Take it in and push it out, in and out, as though I have a choice.  I hope it is a presence, an experience of all the senses. Smells like lime, tastes like salt, feels like orgasm, looks like a cowboy, sounds like Tom Waits barroom music, rough at the edges but overall smooth, funky.

Cool death. Be cool and fun and make me want to dance you, dance you, dance you, never stop.