Tuesday Dance Class

I was never a fan of

Tuesday, it’s too

in the middle, not—

a beginning day like

Monday or Sunday,

an entire music score

waiting to be belted

out by Maria Callas,

arms open, dripping

in diamonds and you

find yourself weeping

though you don’t

speak a word of Italian.

Tuesday is blank, lacking

even the exhale of a

Friday or Saturday. But

as I walk down Broadway

on a Tuesday night

I am just glad

the rain is soft. So

I can walk to dance. So

I don’t have to maneuver

my half-broken umbrella

in and out of fellow New York

walkers, the whisper

of a breeze, light mist

dust my face, I imagine

it all as a kind of

Mother Nature ritual.

Cheaper than that

we-only-do-facials shop

I just passed. This is free,

designed specifically—for

me. And I say a silent

thank you and I know it’s

6pm, but at least I got

out of the house today. For

some reason the gray

felt so—gray. And I am

done apologizing for

going to my corner of

the boxing ring to catch

a breath. Every day I

am just trying to stitch

myself back together

and the last thing I need

is someone saying—

you’re doing it wrong.

So what if I don’t

like Tuesdays? Or gray.

Or cold wind. Or too much

time in my head, the

dance teacher plays music

in Spanish and I fall

into the softness of words

I don’t know.

see how much more open

you become when

you let yourself—fall

I

let

myself

fall

let

gravity

have

its

way

with

my bones

and now design yourself

into the space

silent, I stitch myself

back together.