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She must be having a seizure,
La Lupe’s beau-to-be thinks as he sees her
first sing live—frenzy in her drop earrings, frenzy
in her shirt’s flared sleeves, frenzy
down its kite-cut frills.
Her face betrays both strain and thrill
as she yanks at her hair,
her clothes, her cords, her batch of tools laid bare.
There’s nothing she won’t do in a moment of play.
She doffs and flings her shoes like leather bouquets.
Banshee showgirl, riotous bride.
Nuptials puncture each on-beat cry,
her nickname especially, in ecstasy:
ay, Yiyiyi!
How would it feel, were it seamless the way she
makes it seem? To feel so fully in one’s body; to be?
