A little while ago, I wrote about being a competitive ballroom dancer when I was in college. Below is a poem I wrote after I found one of my old competition dresses. We weren't allowed to wear "costumes" at the collegiate level, so we'd raid the Wet Seal clearance racks for something slinky and fun. Enjoy!
Callbacks
I found that dress,
leopard print swish
of fabric, three sizes too small, in a box
of trophies, tangled kaleidoscope of ribbons.
I held it
up like a seized prize and the storage unit
morphed into hardwood dance
floor. This music
is only in my head.
Smoothed
over my stomach and thighs
making me remember what I learned:
the twitch in my hips that can still
make you crawl, bump car doors
when my arms are unavailable, full of babies
or stacks of essays;
my breath against neck
can keep time, a whispered oh lord,
call it back,
that Rhumba rhythm leaning
into my body, shifting fringe a tacit
agreement between my flesh
and the song.
I will never be back
there, winking at judges with their clipboard
smiles, the illusion of lead and follow,
but as I Waltz us cross-country, again, I will
wear this memory threadbare.
image from pixabay.com