She lay on stiff white linen, sleeping:
head lolled back, palms loose
in surrender. Kept warm for
days by the pastel-dotted nightie,
buttons now undone. All that
potential. When she stirs, everyone is looking,
even her dad. She is jammed
behind her own eyes, jailbird
of a romantic myth shown in photos
that never looked like this.

                                                      Her body
backfires into flamenco, she doesn’t know
flamenco.