The Dance

I danced to Bjork until I got a
headache and sweat collected under
my arms. I made wild disorganized
moves that were instinctual and
entirely uterine and somewhat majestic.
My sister watched me for a couple minutes,
but went back to her work.
There were about six or seven minutes
where I just heaved and hoed my
body about the room getting back
to my roots. Primordial and without
a home. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't
skilled and it shouldn't be on television.
But it is willed and it is there and it is the
beginning.
The rhythms are sex and birth and
throes of death. I didn't know this,
these word, these articulations.
I know the feelings though.
The sweat on my lip on the nape of
my neck collects and it is real.