I will remember you dancing,
spinning round and round
a young girl in Mexico,
your long, black hair free in the wind,
spinning round and round
a young woman at village dances
your long, blue dress swaying
to the beat of La Varsoviana,
smiling into the eyes of your partners,
years later smiling into my eyes
when I’d reach up to dance with you,
my dear aunt, who years later
danced with my children,
you, white-haired but still young
more beautiful than the orchid
pinned on your shoulder,
tottering now when you walk
but saying to me, “Estoy bailando,”
and laughing.