As if my father, the stalker, once said to me, Girl,
as if he said, Girl, while overhead
a bare-bulb lit the scene,
unblinkingly, blinding the room's shadows.
Girly girl, as if binding my hands
and wagging one gloved finger under my nose,
Tsk, tsk. Daddy always knows. As if he danced
from heel to toe and taped my mouth. You are
my baby girl. His face wet with tears,
as if he scrunched and posed,
Oh my little girly girl, my crumb cake icing
doll, don’t cry. As though he was lining up
his instruments all in a row.

On the plane you don't rent the headphones
so while you read your book

occasionally up from the plane's low drone
a laughter arises around you

a hearty American laughter
scary and sudden

My professor’s delicate hands
were adept and able--ample even--
for turning fluttery pages
searching for prophetic passages
that would illuminate
our love/lust
completely inappropriate
relationship.