Gaga Dance Class

by Sophie Tananbaum

 

In Gaga dance class

we try to be more free.

We jut out our limbs 

at random, elbows 

smacking the air, our feet 

sticking to the floor with 

sweat and friction.

Sometimes we try to be 

water, sometimes sand, 

sometimes something ethereal 

that only exists temporarily

in the minds of children

and LSD users.

 

We wonder if that woman is 

on drugs right now 

because she is free.

We can tell by the way 

her hips speak for themselves,

her body is nothing 

but a conduit for

energy and time,

she no longer exists,

the water pours through her

the water is her.

We wish she would give us 

some of her drugs so we

too could be free.

 

Between our trying to reach

beyond the boundaries of

this plane of being 

with our pelvises,

we steal glances around 

the open room,

hoping to spot the same 

deep shame we try to 

shimmy and shake and 

rattle and roll out of

our bodies every week;

that ours is not the only flesh 

who refuses to obey, that each

wiggle of our pinky toes

feels foreign and forced,

and the promised bliss of 

freedom from ourselves 

must wait another week

and another twenty dollars.