Dancer

My mother doesn’t like when I wash the dishes,

“Making her floors a mess.”

I have not mastered the containment of water,

have not engineered strict tunnels and pools, or

learned to press it around gently, just right.

I take a bowl in hand,

move around suds and dirt,

hum and sway,

sing a song,

dance,

rinse,

rack,

dance.

There is no room for precision in my body.

I fall down stairs trying to float.

My family no longer asks who fell. Or if I’m okay.

They know I am clumsy

and free

and fine.