By CL Bledsoe
She throws her tiny body in wide
arcs, a classically trained whirling
dervish, hands above her head, palms
together, fingers steepled, and falls,
but doesn’t pause, wriggles on the floor,
rises, and runs in a circle.
For a moment, she takes my hands,
and I stomp my dad dance. I lift her, spin
her in a screaming circle and lower
her to the couch. She breaks free,
an elegant explosion, and I fade
into stillness, watching.