Hoolah Dancers

They called us the hoolah dancers.

We were young then, abrasive,

sucking cigars in between shows.

We paint our bodies with henna.

I always paint a rising phoenix that my

grandma taught me to do, practicing for

hours on my brother’s back. Our eyes are

painted too. We look haughty, and we

are. We are the cat’s meow.

So many years ago that was now.

Now my breasts sag, and my limp,

pronounced. I can only dream the steps

I took, which I do over and over. In my

dream I take the stage with vigor and

all the dancers watch my steps to

mark time. I am front row, and always will be.

When the nurses come in to take my

blood pressure, I hum a few bars and

sway my legs to show them my moves.

I want them to remember who I am.

I am a hoolah dancer.