Women-children with their mother of pearl eyes, matted seaweed hair, the clam bottoms. Each of us is stuck between an avenue's fork. Our mothers beg to for us watch as if it is a railroad track, but men already resemble knights; we already taste patriarchy. Only some will not curtsy when complimented on the street. They will still wiggle their tongue defiantly, not hold their value upon it.
She can approach liquor, but not dare to drink it - so intoxicated on the dynamics of obeying and disobeying, fluctuating between the expected and outlandish, remaining woman and child.
Here are the poems about that girl, that kaleidoscopic lady.