He would play like that, too –

my mother’s father’s fingers flying over strings –

foot stomping as to make whiskey glasses jump off the table.


Mom would dance, she said,

dance to the flying fingers, fleeing days

of whatever the Salvation Army shared with them.


Don Messer, too, set me reeling –

dancing feet to flying fingers freeing me

to twists and twirls

when the floor met me in my dizzy dance.


It’s the sound of the Metis –

the forgotten people;

so forgotten even mom doesn’t remember the jig in her blood

and the flying fingers fraying bows

on necks too strong to snap.


The jig in my heart jumps lightly now

finding flying feet

out of ash and concrete

so my soul can be free to reel

and meet the floor with my dizzy dance

R. L. Elke

(C)Aug 5/17 prompt 11


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