Ferdinand was systematic when br he drove his daughter mad. br br With a Casanova's careful art, br he moved slowly, br stole only one child at a time br through tunnels specially dug br behind the walls of her royal br chamber, then paid the Duenna br well to remember nothing br but his appreciation. br br Imagine how quietly br the servants must have worked, br br loosening the dirt, the muffled br ring of pick-ends against br the castle stone. The Duenna, br one eye gauging the drugged girl's br sleep, each night handing over br another light parcel, another br small body vanished br through the mouth of a hole. br br Once you were a daughter, too, br then a wife and now the mother br of a baby with a Spanish name. br br Paloma, you call her, little dove; br she sleeps in a room beyond you. br br Your husband, too, works late, br drinks too much at night, comes br home lit, wanting sex and dinner. br You feign sleep, shrunk br in the corner of the queen-sized bed. br br You've confessed, you can't feel things br when they touch you; br br take Prozac for depression, Ativan br for the buzz. Drunk, you call your father br who doesn't want to claim br a ha!fsand-niggergrandkid. br He says he never loved your mother. br br No one remembers Juana; almost br everything's forgotten in time, br br and if I tell her story, br it's only when guessing br what she loved, what she dreamed br about, the lost details of a life br that barely survives history. br br God and Latin, I suppose, what she loved. br And dreams of mice pouring out br from a hole. The Duenna, in spite br of her black, widow's veil, leaning br to kiss her, saying Juana, don't listen...