Sit, child, next, here.

I must wash the wet

of faith on hem

of inexperience. Child,

your hair, tortuous fleets

of tempt, how touching,

grazing finger against

cheek. Sit, child, here,

next they will break wafers of

body to offer tongues for —

like elongated skunk tails,

or a ritual large-cat hunt —

Sit! Child! Next: You are so

baby nice and baby soft,

But you are no baby no more.

The world is painting you already.

And that has made you ugly.

Lorca and Lina ran to clowns

where I forbid you dream.

Yes, the forests are deep,

but I can take you deeper.

Squirm, child, yes, squirm, against

images of men, dumb and deaf

and dead, they were martyrs too.

Child, how near to me you come now,

And how delightful as you bend,

unfolding wood piles

splintered by my fingertips.

Alexa Suarez, Age 15, Grade 11, Stuyvesant High School, Gold Key