The Little Girl Will Never Tire of Confession

The little girl sits in the center of the poem, like the poem is a room we share. The little girl swallows everything that catches light. I offer my hand & she takes it. I offer my tongue but she has one of her own. She moves beside me in the poem. She wants a story. She wants to be held, not like a little girl, but like a little lake. Sometimes I don’t want to walk around carrying a lake. Sometimes she spoils the party. Sometimes I ruin the floors. Sometimes I leave the poem & she tells the stories. She says she grew a new furred body. She says she hung from the rafters, a girl with glass wings. She says the moon is like a mouth, like a boy’s dumb mouth, hanging open in the sky. She pulls it from her pocket. She drops it in my throat. I swallow. I do. & she waits & she waits & she doesn’t say anything after that.