Tradition

I feel the movement in my body 

as if it were not my own, but indeed, 

the surrender pulls at my lips, 

and my smile is not for my performance. 

Threads pull at my skin but I feel 

where they go, where they come from, 

invisible to their coloured eyes, 

the centuries stretch into the distance. 

And what more could I ask for? 

Why have I asked for more, no, less? 

Than this, this sacrifice, this submersion into cool water 

where tears are welcome, I am held 

gently in an embrace of 

a mother I've never seen. 

Her approval drips off my skin; 

finally, I have earned my right to dance.