TB DANCES.

A woman remembers the dances at the TB sanatorium during the war.

Even in the TB sanatorium
During the war, there were
Dances, your mother said
Before the dark mix of

Dementia stewed in her
Head. Men on one side
Of the hall and women
On the other, staring at

The opposite sex deep
Wondering or wishing
Or both or neither, with
The nurses walking along

The lines, encouraging
The shy men, keeping an
Eye, just in case, can’t be
Too careful, even the sick

Have their moments, one
Nurse said, scanning the
Hall, the band playing
Some foxtrot or waltz.

We behaved ourselves
Of course, Mother said.
That was real dancing
Then, not like today.

Real dance steps. Most
Men seemed reticent,
Taciturn, unwilling to
Move or dance. No way.

No chance. Women
Danced together arm
In arm, cheek to cheek,
Laughing against the

Close at hand death,
Holding on for sweet
Life, catching the breath.
Your mother smiled, lost

In thought. Human nature
Will out, she muttered.
Some girl did. Things
Not spoken of. Things

Boasted of now, then
Were hid. She closed
Her eyes. Another time drifts
Away, another memory dies.