A visceral, muscular attack
on the dance track
of jazz, hip hop, and modern,
blew everyone away

everyday
with knee bending
back breaking
neck jerking moves
Astaire and Kelly
would admire (if alive)
of one human’s bizarre

but beautiful Dali moves
filling space with music
as if sculptured
by Michelangelo’s
hands.

In the bedroom
she was no different
challenging her partners
of all persuasions
to keep up with
the rhythms,
the tempos,
the timing,
to please
the savage beast

in her.

The wild street scene
and sublime home arena
entertained and appeased

the street performer
until
mother nature’s bloody call

skipped
a month.

For the final sixteen weeks,
the butterfly was bed-bound
nurturing the young one
until she burst
on a water mattress.

Rushed to ER,

without her aunt,

the midwife,
the Latina pushed

too hard

and

too soon

in the elevator.

The baby

arrived but

did not move.

Seconds became minutes
as doctors breathed life
into the weak of heart
but nothing helped.

The mother,
drenched in blood,
sweat and tears,
reached over
and whispered
into the ear
of the newborn.

Magically
the girl coughed,
lungs expanded,
and cries of joy
were heard throughout
the hospital ward.

As a living and breathing child,
the girl never crawled,
but simply danced
across the nursery floor
amazing other toddlers
with flips, tumbles and jumps.

One afternoon,

her mother showed up
in subsidized day care

and once again

whispered

to her pride and joy
to keep her talents
secret

from the maddening world.

Sixteen years later,
the prodigy performed
on Broadway

one opening night.

Several standing ovations later,

the daughter waved to the front row

to a woman,
a mother,

who never received

the fame or glory

denied her

and so many others

born to the ghettos

of New York,

Philadelphia

or East L.A.

everyday.