Poetry | Rochelle Jewel Shapiro

Soaking them in a tub of Epsom salts

in front of the TV watched

through half-closed eyes

after sixteen hours behind the counter

of his grocery that opened before dawn, 

and closed well after dark, 

daylight mostly seen through a smeary window, 

this same father, at family weddings

squatting on the dance floor, kicking

his legs out one at a time, arms folded

across his chest or each touching 

the floor in turn so his upper body wagged

as he kicked, the leaps he made, legs in a V, 

his spins in the air, the clapping, stamping

of everyone circled around him, 

sweat like dew on his broad forehead, 

eyes like blue stars, the kazatske 

like a zenith in his immigrant heart, 

and me, his daughter, getting to witness 

what lived inside him

and what was snuffed out.