Pamela

She brushes her hair
from her eyes and looks up at me,
she says her name—
and you know the cliche?
I shatter like ice on a pond
and fall—should be terrified—
but she takes my arm
and we whirl on the dance floor
centripetal, balanced by our fingers—
and still whirling 
when the night ended
and still whirling 
when the twins came
and still whirling
in the back porch twilight
still whirling...