Zumba with Lady Gaga

                               —divorce therapy

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

             step right

step left

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