Even the cutting is in place
and the lattice constrains her like a corset
like white hands among white satin tying
her hair up for the providence ball;
and later, uglier hands untying the same
ice curls for the providence music in the dark
Still, she is the rose garden even with
this music, even with foreign rock one-decade old,
even with the odd stereotypes;
she is Still, and she is timeless
she is maidens, she is conquest, she is the
rise of nation foam—silently—
unhinge the rhyme and come in closer—
she is in the last pavilion and
they walk by
like she does not exist
like she is the thing they
want to forget
touch me, mother, she whispers; and I
will speak for you, I will be the rival of your brilliance
‘shhh,’ they say and
castrate her
the last pavilion 