that that's what comes
of taking class at night
then watching Mao's Last Dancer
I dreamed of dancing:
of the wild flight
the pas de chat
the grand jeté
ankles swift and crisp as deers'
power rising from the soft plié
the triple turn erect and effortless
one perfect double tour.
I don't suppose it matters much and yet this thrill remains
this singing in my bones
I have become, somehow,
and my femurs and the smallest winged ribs
all know the spirit of the dance.
And so I say,
and mean something much more:
I dreamt of dancing.