Love the ridiculous.
Fear not contortions of the body
nor the vibrations of failure.
Place the hoop on your waist
where your husband puts his hands.
Then gyrate like crazy.
There’s no single method:
make of your hips a swivel stool
and your pelvis a pendulum.
Some will spiral slowly,
letting the hoop rock and swing
like a carousel of pastel horses.
I, graceless, wildly whirl myself
from abdomen to knees.
Normally, the hoop tumbles
down my legs in a minute
or three—but occasionally,
it will stay and settle,
and I’ll sway like a cartoon snake
in a basket, lifting my arms
above my head, seductive Salome.
Or rather, a middle-aged woman
with her moments briefly balanced,
a car wheel going nowhere,
but in no special hurry to get there.
Photo by Ben Seidelman used under Creative Commons License (BY-2.0)
