Sullen girl

Veiny arms, throbbing temple, baby hairs on skin

as thin as a plum’s. You are a child with a fever

and I want to put a cool washcloth to your cheek,

wrap you in blankets the color of butter. To be

your mother. I know the hash pipe isn’t to stoke

your appetite. I know the hollowness of your bones

is only equal to the hollowness of the piano keys;

that defilement in a dark alley doesn’t unlock

some dark secret at the Earth’s core that you never

even wanted to learn.

But I can’t stop thinking

that you know everything, and you are secretly

two hundred years old, and because of this,

you dress in rags dyed with lavender and rosehips,

eat your steak bloody. The old lady at the pharmacy

recommends vitamin D. The bum on the corner

yells too skinny, when he really means what

a waste, or what an absolute goddamned shame.

But they don’t get it. They don’t understand

that each line, each song can only be as thin

and tense as the girl singing it. Wipe the sweat

from your brow, dear one. Have a glass of water.

Claire Christoff writes: “I live and write in Indianapolis, Indiana. My work has appeared in The Hairpin and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and is forthcoming in Passages North and Grist.”