in high school, it was bon jovi and bryan adams and i’d lie on my bed, the scratch of cassette and their throats and the day
and then i’d get up and i’d dance, the door stayed shut, mum not letting sisters in for the secular music i played and i’d dance,
this heathen in her 16-year-old soul, in her value village shirt and long hair and bell-bottoms
they rocked my world, those men in the stereo, life became simple when they sang of livin’ on a prayer and cloud number nine and the rush i felt from knowing
i still believed, in spite of a family which thought i didn’t, i still believed in God and goodness and i believed even while dancing to rock n’ roll
no amount of drums or throat scratch lyrics were going to steal my faith
i watch now as son twirls to the beat that so often saved me and i whisper, “dance on, sweet boy” remembering the rhythms of grace
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