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.