Near the border of France
I enter a milonga in Saarbrücken.
She is French,
We speak in German.
But our mutual language is tango.
The music starts.
Our embrace, melds two hearts,
And like tango, a dance of immigrants,
Our souls transmigrate to a place we both have never been.
Our movements interpret a tango both familiar and new.
My feet had spoken this same tango in my kitchen two days before.
But now I speak with a strong French accent, her accent,
Her way of making what I say different.
New to me, new to her.
The magic of tango is the moment I am no longer just me.