dance class

Thirty-odd girls supine on the floor,
each her own dais

she kneels and crows, half-naked
with nets of strings wound up her thighs
and leather mousetraps chewing open her feet

one hand flattens her womb
her face is carved too devoid for her neck to carry
with an intention so compressed she can
swallow a mouthful and float up

buoyed by each curving elbow
made to bend and carry
she trembles motherless under
white strips of dew
that fall, syncopating, off her breast

and prays the rhythm accepts her fever
prostrated in every possible
towards an altar
that shines back
every shorn

Story of the day : why, even, do i dance-class?