A man in a suit approached and touched my arm.
Would I pose in front of the merry-go-round?
I was thirteen, free for an hour, in the middle
of Paramus Park Mall, in America. I was America.
The man was leading a tour; the tourists spoke
no English. My English mother once said, Your sister
is beautiful, but you are reasonably attractive. She chose
my clothes, that day a blouse abuzz with tiny flowers,
a pink pleated skirt. Yes, I said, and sat on the bench.
Everybody smiled. My hair curled like orchid petals.
A malicious carousel horse whispered, Why
would they point their cameras at you? As if
you were pretty. This will be a story, I replied.
Of glass eyes, blind, that saw bloom in me.
