«The Dance Hall» (poetry by Francisco Bravo Cabrera)

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THE DANCE HALL

Smoke hides your face,

chokes your laughter.

The jokes I half-remembered

camouflage my truth.

Our words were carved in ice cubes

only used to chill warm beer.
Sweat sticks to us,

like tar refusing to release our skin.

The dancers stagger off beat to the music.

The hall releases its sulphurous smell

of onions.

You moved your hips on the chair,

as if to dance.

I lit another cigarette.

Ashes fly across the green linoleum

I hear the drops of rain.

My feet point to the door.

24 AUG 2026, Francisco Bravo Cabrera – Ilica, Turkey

Instagram: @Francisco_Bravo_Cabrera

CHEERS