She wants to dance.
To know her body as urgent verb.
To dance. Here. In this room. Any room.
To dance while her legs still bend and leap.
To dance while her arms still lift. Dance
while she still has wrists to twist. While
she still has neck and ribs and hips.
What is she afraid of?
She was never a very good dancer.
But has she not been laughed at before?
And what is the cost if she doesn’t whirl and wheel
through Tuesday, through noon, through now?
And what if she bows right now to herself,
offers herself her own open hand,
then rises and leaps and spins through the room
saying yes, I thought you’d never ask.