Dancing with the Stars

Your legs span a condor’s wings. The left rests on your partner’s shoulder; the right extends beyond three stairs down which you glide in the opening steps of the tango.

At one time, you were made of chicken bones. You kicked out from the knee, ruffling a French-sewn hem. You married a rock star made of blue pills. Oh, it’s not enough! Not anymore.

Now, you dance.