Flora by the Fence
by Sylvia Claire Onorato
Beside the fence she sits
in flamenco attire, still
simmering with passion
she no longer translates
into motion or accentuates
with the cockle-tongued castanets
that, no more than five minutes
ago, threw echoes in radiating
ripples against stucco walls,
over the barbed wire and away
to the altarasa, the landscape
at her back. She sees only
pavement now. Pavement
and the pooling red wrinkles
of her dress ablaze in midday
heat, livid fiery finery perfectly
awake when every other skirt
scrunches up in shadow while
the women within take their siestas,
a customary excuse to avoid
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