Painting Salvadora

We used to dance badly on the hardwood floor
to a tiny white phonograph adorned
with cartoon faces in primary colors
spinning thrift store records with mismatched covers.
We painted each other's faces the first time we kissed;
I brushed her cheek with fingers,
she tinted mine with lips.
In a dream, I named her Sally, short for Salvadora,
who likes to dance badly on the hardwood floor.
We used to paint pictures in the room downstairs.
There was a black and white photograph of her
grandmother at age twenty--it could have been Sally
in a dark wig and glasses.
I would have remade Grandma in paint, had we lasted.
Now, though I still sing her song, sometimes I choke on her name,
while some nights, in dreams,
I still call her Sally, short for Salvadora,
who used to dance badly on the hardwood floor.