dancing alone in the carpeted space
behind the last row of folding chairs
at the michael jackson
at the playa del carmen resort
who had enough tequila last night to forget
that she had no real idea of how to dance
her legs spread apart on the floor
stalking from side to side in wobbled jerky steps
waving her arms and body around
even when the music stopped between numbers
and the performers changed their costumes backstage
shedding their thriller zombie rags
for something more formal
she kept gyrating in the silence
but had enough focus to see
that people were watching her
and enough sense to tell
that people were judging her
she turned to a group of us
and slurred loudly
as she continued to move to the rhythm
she had found in the distilled nectar of the agave plant
drawing out all of her syllables
telling us that we should all be dancing
that dancing was a beautiful thing
and it felt wonderful
and continued with a few other unintelligible things
as everybody moved back away from her
just a little bit further
towards the back wall
the mexican dancer playing michael jackson
stepped back onto the stage
a fedora placed low on his head
and microphone curved
from his right ear to his mouth
she turned back toward the stage
and the next song began
and she continued to move without grace
dancing to a beat that nobody else could hear
her movements were awkward and random
in all the standard ways
that american too drunk on tequila girls move
it had nothing to do with the music
it had nothing to do with michael jackson
it didn’t flow
it wasn’t gainly
it wasn’t smooth
but as the performer on stage
struck that iconic michael jackson pose
his head angled down
so we could only see his mouth
with one hand on his crotch
with one hand on his crotch
his other hand in its white jewel encrusted glove
stuck down and out to his side
i glanced back to the woman in front of us
and it wasn’t pretty
but i knew that she was right
it was beautiful.
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