March 6, 2024Praise Dance
I.
i close my legs. i’m starting to smell
like a woman and the other girls can tell.
they spread wide and bend forward,
breathe giggles into the floor. clean
like new soap, talking in clicks about pastor’s
son—i am in love—about the way he feels.
they quip about how he kissed sharp
like a punishment in the back room off
the narthex. i felt him with my foot, says an usher’s
daughter and other girls shiver in her pride.
Sister comes to open me up and my jealousy
reeks like cabbage: pungent my yielding body.
II.
we balance on the ball, my ankles spurred out
and trembling. the girls step on my feet to make
my arch collapse. they don’t ask me where
it hurts and i don’t bother to tell them.
take me to the king and we carve lazily for Him,
our palms drawn upward, so open
i can’t breathe. this practice, pushing good
from the ground to the apex to the pews.
afterward, the girls dance for the boys straight out
of bible study. the girls ripple, laughs tart greens,
dressed still in paneled white tunics slick
over their curves. one of the boys begins
to beat on the altar a rhythm that makes me want
to whine into my seat. the girls’ hips clock against
one another. the pastor’s son humors a pew stain.
the others hooting, enraptured; blanched, i gnaw.
III.
on stage, Sister is violent for the Lord. fruit
washed in vinegar, she’s bitter white spit
down the apron. i don’t mistake her passion
for devotion. she’s giving it to the ushers
shaking wicker hats full of change, their gloves
browned at the tips. the elders with butterscotch
bulged cheeks clap fans against shiny
bad-ass boy heads, hallelujah
from the chest. fathers bop babies off knees
and my mother ducks her head in her purse,
chewing red vines and sucking her teeth. seen
from our pristine line of girls, i hide my head
in the thicket of hair gifted to the tallest of us.
i marvel behind the black halo at Sister’s war
of limbs until she comes
to a halt. the flock erupts.
i have to breathe in.
from Plucked