Dovercourt House: Ecstatic Dance Studio (2023) Read by the Author

Right cheek warmed by friendly planks,

I sprawl beneath a chosen window

that spills its sunshine on my lips,

ladles honey heat over tilted nape.

I roll from side to side, waking combs of beeswax

and provoke the floor to creak an invitation:

“You can ask me anything.”

***

Unsure, I glance to the mirror for answers,

but it speaks only shame, does not listen.

I fling away my glasses, and the judge dissolves to Wisdom:

examining my body is only one way to experience it.

***

Rising yesward on bolder knees,

I study the high ceiling,

ten tall windows with fans whirring on their sills,

the fire exit platform threaded with vines –

and this choir of generous portals shouts

“Get Your Freedom Here!”

and bids me stand.

***

Now on my feet, I allow shoulders and wrists and thighs

to shake off dutiful belittlements —

the should’s, the sorry’s, the shrinking silences —

and let them be shed and shredded on the dance floor

somewhere south of broken.

***

For once, my hips don’t apologize for their curves

and they dare me leap from mountain bridge

to thunder-soaked river, where I wrestle

with dangerous currents I’ve shunned out of fear.

Surrender to the river tugs me wild open, cracking my thick shell,

pushing, pulling, having me rolling like a beast

who slaps mud on her chest and stamps her hooves

and doesn’t care who thinks she needs a cage.

***

Being here in this dancing river

feels like returning to the fire-girl I was,

burning up caution, sadness, and grief in a healing fever,

reveling in electrical storms that crackle along my bones,

flourishing a purple cape, tasting the salt of delectable effort,

spine loose, palms grateful, instinct hushing intellect,

feet singing over noise of the brain.

Here in this movement, I inhabit my body, my rightful home.