Leotards soaked with jasmine

and sweat that didn’t stink,

because I was young and pure,

(but not so pure).

Could you smell me now,

maybe in a health food store,

lifting a bottle of yellow, oily perfume

to your face?

Tell me what I meant to you,

dancing in the studio or in the club.

Tell me more than that I was unmitigated disaster,

or that I had the skinniest arms you’d ever seen,

or that I was a stone-cold-fox.

Tell me how you’d feel now

I am no longer lithe or young,

no longer reeking of ancient flowers.

Tell me if you can imagine

how fragile I really was back then,

dressing for dance class

and spilling a bottle of jasmine

all over my scratchy, black, synthetic tights.

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