Still spinning

A little girl spins
in broken figure eights.

A clean diaper,
bare feet kind of free.

Around and around.
She dances on little toes
pink as a newborn’s.

Fantasia on television.
A fish with eyelashes
dances; its tailfin a veil
sheer as curtains.
Around and around.

The fish whirls and blurs.

The TV’s is on mute.
Crescendos blaring
from her father’s stereo.

He hits black and white.
His keyboard setting:
organs laugh and cry.

She twirls in the living room.

Her father scoops her up
into his arms, headphones
dangling around his neck.

She’s still spinning in his arms.

Cymbols, cymbols, cymbols.

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