Saturday Sounds

Fuh-lap-step-stomp heel-stomp.

It is at first

A jumble of sounds.

A dozen silvery heels and toes

Ricocheting off of the once shimmery wooden planks.

The floor is marked by ghost’s footsteps,

Dents and dark streaks left behind

By the dancers here before us.

The soft light in the room

Streams in across our bodies

Through large windows

That abutt the tree-lined Berkeley street.

There must be noises outside,

Though we can’t hear them over our own.

Shuffle-stomp, heel-stomp-hop-step.

Our bodies rock gently

As our feet flow;

Leggings, sweatpants, flannels, and naked bellies

Beneath crop tops sway

Subtly in comparison to our feet

And the visceral cacophony of sound.

The studio was built for this,

And there is no echo

To mar, mute, or dampen the clean airy clink

Of a Teletone tap attached with a single screw

Hitting its percussive

Refrain off of the floor.

Our teacher, Chi Chi,

Turns and points to each of us.

One at a time,

We faithfully try to mimic the music

She’d made with her feet

And now her mouth.

Ba-doom-ba pa, ba-da-da boom pa-pa

She says in a sentence made of sounds

That are both our goal and guidance.

When it is my turn, I dance.

I leave my feelings on the floor

With each flick and flop of my ankle.

My knees draw up, taps slamming down,

Then barely skimming the ground.

My feet speak.

The words they speak in

Are music, not mine, but Chi Chi’s,

And also Stevie’s who,

When we are more practiced,

Sings his vocal refrains

Beneath or over top of ours.

Within the hour,

Our clamor is consolidated.

We begin to move as a collective,

6 of us dancing altogether like we are one.

Our movements are shepherded,

Massaged into single sounds.

Chi Chi click clacks to the stereo,

Turning our tune on for the

Final dance of the class,

The day awaiting us

When we are done with

Our ball change pullbacks.

“Everything feels better with Stevie Wonder.”

Chi Chi smiles,

Her warmth filling the room,

And I have to agree.

So in our final dance,

I take my time,

Tapping at the last possible moment,

Without missing the beat.

Savoring each flap, heel, toe, slam, stomp.

It is a sermon from my feet

To the Saturday afternoon sun.