If we saw them dance this dance
in their own country –
her hair spun
out like caramel, dark skirts petalling;
his knees flexed and arms akimbo,
reaching for the lift
– we would applaud.
The dance is wrong.
Her spin is imperceptible, his kick
lethargic. They move like mannequins.
Instead of the riq, they turn
to the slow slap of water on wood.