Dance

*After Rosa Hernandez (Dance like Juana the Cubana)*

From time to time, I need to dance like my feet are mine,
dance like when I stood on my grandfather’s feet,
dance like I’m truly me without pride,
like I’m home alone and no one can disrupt my flow but me,
dance to my best friend’s music,
dance to the sunrise.
Twist ripe limes and dance to the sour drops.
Drink the last of the lemonade and dance to the chaos it brings.
Draw fresh hopscotch and dance until it fades.
Break the piñata and dance through the falling confetti.
Dance on the broken candy.
Dance for the river, for the city,
for the mothers whose sons are in Iraq.
Dance for a change.
Dance even though I can’t dance,
even though I’m in a wheelchair, even though I’m on crutches.
even on my deathbed.
Dance with no limbs,
with my feet chained, with my eyes closed, with no music,
with deaf folks.
Dance as if it were my only means of communication.
Dance because I need a release.
Dance because it’s fun.
Dance because it makes me happy.