Dream as Delilah Lampshade

It starts with my mother’s dress,
crimson as a fever—

a stolen compact, dim basement
lighting. I learn grit

from a muzzle & a cheap pair
of heels, two rivers of mascara

spidering down my cheeks. Twirling
beneath a forest of spotlights

I am invincible, my body a quiet kind
of violence. Maybe now you’ll want me:

no longer boyish. Swaying, I am
fantasy. Beneath an orange moon,

I am the daughter my mother always wanted.