When I was a little girl
I used to speak like a little girl
cry laugh and play like a little girl:
Ouch! There’s a thorn in my thumb! Take it out!
Mary in the oval mirror
behind mommy’s steady head
watched and wept for me
and my thorn in the flesh.
Mommy (not Mary)
dug ever so slowly
in the grooves of my thumb
as I squealed and squirmed
like a little piggy girl.
Stop little piggy
Mommy (not Mary) warned
as she yanked and pulled
at my finger thorn
Little piggy girls
must bleed
till they come to be
big little girls
who mourn
no more.
The Hungry Artist 