I iron out the
crinkles in my dress, forest
green cinched at the
waist, ending just above
my knees. My instructor
Irina Nicolaevna says no one
has ever tried such a bold
color and succeeded.
Toes and heels
glissade on lacquered boards, spinal
cords like metal. They
elevate necks – waltz
without breaking
a sweat.
What is she doing here?
I uncoil my spine, lock
each muscle. Ya pon-i-ma-u
ruski: I understand
your Russian
non-white-people-
hating gossip.
Irina Nicolaevna, biting
blue boring, champion
title holder.
Ty budesh sledushaya
You’re next, she says.
“One, two, three, four, five
everybody in the car so come on let’s ride – ”
I inhale, ready
to retaliate, sharpening
arms and legs. I
jive. Their hate
is worth the
rush.