& covered in smudges & peeling suede & sparked arguments
every time I wore them out of the house. Yes, I wanted to wear
those shoes, the ones that looked like we couldn’t afford anything

better.  I’d been practicing to clownwalk / glide / modeled my body’s
movement after Usher & slid on concrete smoother than slicing
an avocado’s flesh. I wanted to say: I don’t need beauty.

The first time I believed in sorcery was when I saw Jesse windmill
his six-foot-two body into a freeze, lifting his long legs
with such precision I almost cried. I wanted to become liquid,

for my body to wave & shimmer & never be forced into rolling
my hips if the beat was hard enough to six-step to. The best b-boys
uprocked with anchors in their feet, placed red cups on the floor

to show me where to land. They said if I could do a handstand
they could teach me to break, that my footwork was good enough
for an invitation to the crew, for their eyes not to linger on my chest

when I danced. But they couldn’t explain why every b-boy
carried loose change in his pockets—a second after the music blared,
they went airborne, littering the courtyard with quarters, laughing.

We freestyled every day after school but never prepared a routine.
This, like everything, was a practice in freedom. We needed the music,
each other, our specially selected sneakers to assist in the fantasy

that we too were elemental: water, fire, smoke, math. We defied
the teachers that hated us with our daily dose of Kanye, Nas,
gloves & cardboard boxes, horchata & gas station snacks.

Somewhere between snaking & signing, I forged my gender
into something my body could interpret. I found its humor.
I opted out of beauty & became something else for a while.

My mother never saw me dance.