My legs move fast

my feet still remember

Mama ran away.

The Charleston ends

my feet, still

I plunk a new recording on Victor Victrola

plant the needle in the grove

turn the crank.

My feet move again

green and yellow squares of rug

melt together

I spin, braid pinging from one shoulder

to the next

like two different suitors

tapping my shoulder

asking to be my dance partner.

Like a wild mushroom,

my skirt puffs

the swoosh of movement says,

“Everything will be alright again.”

I squint to believe.

photo credit

via Mushroom