Twirl that girl from
your pinky finger,
let her fly around
the morgue. For
she is no longer
viable, as the doc
might pronounce
grimly to a waiting
family. She can
still feel the deep
thrum of bass drums,
taste the smoky
electricity in the air,
hear twanging
strings vibrating.
Even in death, she
dances with her
father, stepping on
toes, giggling softly.
Dancers live forever.