Dance Heart

She sat on a chair, immaculate—her hands open to a song. She sat with her back straight and her chin high and her hair pulled back from her face, a child of no more than three and already careful about herself in the world, aware of being watched, or its possibility. I fashioned a future for her while I stole this photograph. I made up a story about something missing found, something asked for given.

Someone reaches for her hand and the music plays and she sylphs.

(I can make sylph a verb if I want to.)