Svetlana Works It Out
The oldest woman in Jazzercise
wears red lipstick
and a black sports bra,
though she doesn’t quite
have the belly for it.
Her nails are always done.
Her hair is always down
and whipping, sweaty chestnut
as she dances. While
all the other girls
are merely exercising, she dances
head snap and hip shimmy
arms dipping and grooving,
some bespangledly foreign she-deity.
After movie time with Stepson
and her weekly eyebrow threading
she reads before bed, keeping sharp
for all possible conversation.
In her dreams she goes shoe shopping on the Death Star,
entertains in baroque halls with Alexandra Fedorovna,
strange Grigori with her cocktail laugh,
the bleeding boy with sugar drops
a furtive sip from her champagne.
the sun busts her nightly parties
stretches, touching her toes before the
mirror first thing, looks
her face once before makeuping it.
While the younger girls rest
and clutch their breathless sides,
she watches herself in the mirror,
spinning, gliding, whirling
on stage. Rockette.
Scores Girl. All
woman as display
is she and her movement, is this dance,
smudged and glowing and fabulous.