Dance

If I can make it off this chair, I’ll dance, my lovely Irish dance. Arms can stay down, how wonderful. Just two feet, so beautiful, In joint ecstasy and cadence. Whirling, moving, turbulent air. If I can make it to the stage, Reading aloud, speak my rhyme Myself, speak and make them sing. No pause, no awkward waiting. Each word a melody, this time, Creating beauty out of rage. If I could only lift my arms, I’d dance, not just my Irish whirling. I’d fly, be what I want to. But words will have to make do, And I am glad my words can sing. Words, forever lucky charms. For now my dance must come from you You be my arms, my feet, my mouth You whirl and turn, you jam You make my poems into slam You make my shyness into proud You dance, so I will too.