- 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. [End Page 105]
Cameron Awkward-Rich is a PhD candidate in Modern Thought & Literature at Stanford University and on staff at Muzzle Magazine. You can find his poems in The Seattle Review, The Journal, and elsewhere, including his forthcoming chapbook, Transit (Button Poetry, 2015). You can find him on public transit somewhere.