Shake.  Shake.  Shake.  Shiny lines of fabric slide across her thighs.  Shake she goes.  I can see the mice running along her bones, under her skin.  The stringy muscles dance with her.  Shake.  Shake.  He throws her.  Her hair is flying now.  Like an old airplane propeller.  Her shimmery dress twists around her hips when she twirls. 
There is a dress on the stage.  It is green like an apple and it sparkles like it is made of fish scales.  The dress hangs off the dancer.  The shiny stringy fringe clings to her sweaty thighs.  Shake.  Shake.  She twirls.  I can see the muscles in her legs dimple and jump when she moves.  Shake.  I can imagine little mice that are running up and down her bones under her skin.  That is how her muscles move.  Shake.  Shake.  Stand up now everybody she says.  Watch me.  Shake she says.  Twirl she says.  I watch her spin.  You, girl.  In the red shirt.  Twirl.  Twirl she says.  I’ll show you.  It’s not so hard.  The woman on the stage looks at me.  She crosses her shoes and leans to one side then lifts her foot.  She yanks her leg back fast.  I can see the mice running up her leg.  They run up, up into her hips.  I am scared for the mice.  The woman is a hurricane now.  She is a beautiful green hurricane and she will spin fast and long.  Sheets of hair and fish scale fabric whip around her and blur.  She is alone.  No one can pass through her moving walls of green and yellow and flesh and shine.  I want to follow her.  I want spinning yellow-green walls that no one can pass through.  But where do the mice go?