Zumba with Lady Gaga
A week ago, I didn’t know Lady Gaga
from Lady Godiva.
Now I’m stumbling through
a fusion of Latin, hip-hop, belly and pop
while Gaga rocks her lyrics right at me:
She still loves her Judas too.
After three Zumba classes I’m keeping up—
salsa, samba, and the Kumbia Kings:
Fuego! The roof’s burnin’ but we don’t care.
Bollywood, calypso, soca, reggaeton
(faster now; heart rate up!)
Step on the gasolina: My baby likes gasolina!
(or something like that).
I’m told some of the words are dirty—luckily
(or un), I don’t know Spanish, Arabic, Hindi
and can’t catch half the English.
Panting, we take it down a notch to the lyric
I’m lookin’ for a Jack who’s not a ripper.
Then: right foot cha cha cha
left foot cha cha cha
turn turn turn turn
swim, monkey, frugue, pony.
Our 20-ish teacher calls this one “the ’80s”
but I recall go-go boots in sixth grade, 1966.
Now it’s, “Bring out your inner Beyoncé!”
for Single Ladies, the only song I knew before.
More mambo, tango and a peppy meringue rap:
the guy has passion in his pants
and likes to flaunt it.
Miraculously, I can now shimmy.
Mirrors line one wall.
That’s me smilin’, sweatin’, hot
pink tank, black tights—
like the last song says,
I’m groovin’ my rock moves
and I don’t need
- Karen Paul Holmes from Untying the Knot