tango
three pieces and a story.
1. astor piazzolla - violen tango
2. ryuuichi sakamoto - tango (version castellano)
3. gotan project - tango cancion
at the end of the world, you tango together. you'd learnt tango from your mother and father, staring at them from the counter, feet getting wet in the sink, watching their toes flit against the dirty tiles of the kitchen. you'd copied the way your mother swayed, her wispy sigh, the curl of her mouth, and found at once her movements so secretive and supple. now, though, the bent of the wrist, the regal curve of the neck-it all comes so easily. you've just buried what's left of your father with the ashes of your mother, and the nuclear fallout still has him disorientated, but you're not all going straight either, so the two of you hold each other close and step, careful, around the debris. the tatters of your jeans weave around your thighs and his when he spins you, singed edges crumbling into dust as your thighs press together weakly. when he dips you, you throw your head back and laugh. he loses his balance and as the two of you tumble to the ground, radiation shot like burns through flesh, you suddenly remember. the tango, your father had said, dipping your mother, her head dangerously close to the refrigerator handle, the most passionate dance of all.
1. astor piazzolla - violen tango
2. ryuuichi sakamoto - tango (version castellano)
3. gotan project - tango cancion
at the end of the world, you tango together. you'd learnt tango from your mother and father, staring at them from the counter, feet getting wet in the sink, watching their toes flit against the dirty tiles of the kitchen. you'd copied the way your mother swayed, her wispy sigh, the curl of her mouth, and found at once her movements so secretive and supple. now, though, the bent of the wrist, the regal curve of the neck-it all comes so easily. you've just buried what's left of your father with the ashes of your mother, and the nuclear fallout still has him disorientated, but you're not all going straight either, so the two of you hold each other close and step, careful, around the debris. the tatters of your jeans weave around your thighs and his when he spins you, singed edges crumbling into dust as your thighs press together weakly. when he dips you, you throw your head back and laugh. he loses his balance and as the two of you tumble to the ground, radiation shot like burns through flesh, you suddenly remember. the tango, your father had said, dipping your mother, her head dangerously close to the refrigerator handle, the most passionate dance of all.