Willful Girl

Willful girl
marked as such
with a serious face, one
finger on the sternum

I am here she says,
not tired of herself
yet: five, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five

As she was born,
her father eyed
the planet Mars, veined and cratered
tunneling through a widening mouth

How clever in design, he thought
against the symphony of huffs
his wife let out

The oblong head
halted again at
the willful girl’s small shoulders,
and blood oil
cascaded down
her angry face

the body is the afterthought
of a head,
as a comma rests
by a word

Would you like to hold her?


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