Of dancing

The dancer first found a seat.
she sat,
before dragging out,
from her bulky dancing bag,
bells on strings that sang such a racket
as she wound them around her ankle,
 thrice on each leg.
Double checked the knots,
it wouldn't do to slip.
She stood, not with obvious grace and
each step announcing itself, she took, right in the centre,
her rightful place.
A subtle nod started the beat and
freeing the little chunk of breath held hostage,
she began.

Limbs that looked awkwardly out of place
before
slunk up, then down
like they were born to shape.
Hips gave up on angles.
Her wrists curved with melody as
if drawing out lines
whispered into unadorned ears
by music made only from words and claps.
Her neck, it swayed.
Eyes half hooded as too plump cheeks
seemed to half lift with the half
smile of losing yourself.
And feet with fallen arches,
moving faster than you'd believe possible,
as she spun, skirt flaring, made
music out of
a hundred bells, each
strand double knotted,
round and round
her perfectly disguised
dancer ankles.