The History of Swing

Yes, the rhythmic thrum of my
body, hips pulsing,
legs holding me steady.
And this was where
I had come from.

Around fires in the dark,
feet stamping upon
the hardened earth,
red soil clouding onto 
their toes. 

This is where we come from,
the sway of a pelvis,
the call into a forest.
The desert's lost wind
whipping up the smoke.

I stand on waxed flooring,
feeling the groves of the
ancient forest, the knots
and wear of humanity.

In my legs there is music,
working through my hips-
I am woman, and here
is where I came from.

Black and white dance halls
with burnt edges,
distended bellies full of body
swaying in the crowds.

In my shoulders a groove,
a bob and weave with my
head of curls, against the
colored lights.
Music was born from my 
belly. 
My lips, stained red 
formed sound.

I am the silver-streamer stages
with four piece bands,
the bar crates and microphones.
My hips wrote
the history of swing.

My arms up, taking
a handful of stars,
burning to illuminate 
the primal urge 
we evolved.

This is where I come from.
With music in my hips
enough to guide the heavenly bodies
to rest. 
I am woman, and this where
dance came from.