the daughter in my head.
After the real ones enrage
and get barred to the basement,
she pirouettes en pointe in maryjanes,
arms in fifth position,
hair that levitates, catching
every loose electron. Solange

comes when I call her.
I call her
like I'd throw a grapple
at the afternoon.
She climbs in my lap to soothe me.
I stroke her sparking hair

as she starts speaking
the wisdom of children
in Christmas movies.
She tells me
with a story about a bird
and three flowers

that I'm right to be angry,
that they'll grow up better
for being taught a lesson.

Then Solange yawns
and closes her doll eyes
because I'm tired
of her, and want to float alone

in the dimness
between repentance
and this yearning
even she can't keep at bay.

Kathleen Flenniken