Herräng

I’d heard of the place

where people go

to dance the night away

up in Sweden’s rural heart

since 1982.

the village truly is out there, 

tucked away behind dunes,

which, on the other side,

open up to the sea.

the waves seemed rougher from the shore,

so gray and cold and harsh,

than they actually felt like

once I was down under.

road signs painted in reds and whites

point toward the building,

the Folkets Hus, the Swedish Savoy,

where lights go on after dark.

and music seeps through windows cracked

and laugher mingles in

and dancers’re flooding in and out,

drenched in sweat,

radiating joy.

and the coffee place is open late

and banana bread is served

and dancers sit on velvet cushions,

and sipping and chatting away.

even a rainy, cloudy night

can’t keep any of us in,

and so it goes,

and so it goes,

as if time were standing still.

and now the sun is out again

and laundry is drying in the winds,

and my hair is braided yet again

for yet another show.

it’s slow drag night,

I cannot wait,

for the magic all around.

and I won’t even try

to pack it up

and take it home with me

so it can unfold where it belongs

and delight my searching soul.

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