From the margins we come, dancing. This poem is a dance floor. We fill it: with our bodies; with our love; with a pagan disco goddess and god. Move into me; I love what you are wearing. Together, as congregation, we form a secret nation that spans gender and skin. Come dancing. Share sweat. Shake water bottle. Drip wet. Raise Spirit to fill every corner of our world. Let the bass drop and do not stop until we transcend. This club is a cathedral. Become shaman. Become witch. Doctor and nurse this. Role and play. Say, I love what you are wearing; skin is so in this season. Come, dancing. Because you are my tribe. I shall dislocate into your shape. At every gathering we honour those gone, save a space for those who have danced on, before us: the activists; those who struggled to survive this; them who, outside this hallowed hall, we lost to HIV and AIDS. But here, now, in the sound of an anthem speaking loud, they come, dancing, proud. Because here is a space for sharing. Even with spirits. Especially with Spirit. Here, we learn to be queer and every letter in between as we raise arms, cinematic, inside strobe machine. Drag kings and queens scream a song and we all sing along. We are so camp we tent this. Oh sister, oh brother, oh brilliant rainbow other, my mercurial future lover: I love what you are wearing. If we must die with imaginary sin, at least let us die dancing. You and I have no need for anything but the beat and each other. So here, sweat on me! Let us embrace! I have never smiled this much in this place. And this rhythm, these anthems, they shall brim inside our blood. Because our love is love. So come, dancing. Because here we are alive! Because here we dance with pride!