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
