I suppose
that that's what comes 
of taking class at night
then watching Mao's Last Dancer
but
last night,
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
this certainty:
I have become, somehow,
a dancer
and my femurs and the smallest winged ribs
all know the spirit of the dance.

And so I say,
and mean something much more:
last night
I dreamt of dancing.