Alissa Simon (16)
For My Niece
sweet girl, you possess the most darling velvet gums I’ve ever seen,
shelved inside cheeks as soft and flushed as chicken flesh,
the firm promise of teeth swelling underneath an infantile disposition.
bared before me—your body—the cruelty of this linoleum floor
only the corners of your vacant eyes, glinting knives in this ripe darkness,
catch the slick, the shifting light;
silver lashes permeating ancient umbra.
it’s too hard to tell you
that your body will become a set of crockery.
the saucers beneath your plush knees,
a crude colander between your clasped palms
—we could fill goblets with the spit that spills through—
the faucet behind your tongue,
hollows for holding.
when the day breaks, i know you’re going to hunger.
i want you to make it hard for us
to feed from you.
i want you to forge your own cutlery
from tooth and nail,
fist in jaw, perpetual blue,
the press of your fingers begging against the buds of your gums ready to expose
fangs bared endlessly,
filled with sugared cicadas keeping time in the cup of your mandible,
as you gorge yourself on your honey.
thirteen suns will rise here before we know it, and you’re going to lay the table.
a thousand times now, I’ve seen you knead your palms into the meat of the earth,
the caverns of your baby body veiled by gentle fat,
teething—unconcerned—on these things I wish of you,
my girl.
Alissa Simon is sixteen years old and a high school junior living in the District of Columbia. She has been writing since she was nine years old, and has dozens of half-filled notebooks to prove it. She currently serves as an editor on her school’s literary and identity magazines. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards in the past. When she isn’t writing, she’s most likely baking or daydreaming about having a dog.
For My Niece
sweet girl, you possess the most darling velvet gums I’ve ever seen,
shelved inside cheeks as soft and flushed as chicken flesh,
the firm promise of teeth swelling underneath an infantile disposition.
bared before me—your body—the cruelty of this linoleum floor
only the corners of your vacant eyes, glinting knives in this ripe darkness,
catch the slick, the shifting light;
silver lashes permeating ancient umbra.
it’s too hard to tell you
that your body will become a set of crockery.
the saucers beneath your plush knees,
a crude colander between your clasped palms
—we could fill goblets with the spit that spills through—
the faucet behind your tongue,
hollows for holding.
when the day breaks, i know you’re going to hunger.
i want you to make it hard for us
to feed from you.
i want you to forge your own cutlery
from tooth and nail,
fist in jaw, perpetual blue,
the press of your fingers begging against the buds of your gums ready to expose
fangs bared endlessly,
filled with sugared cicadas keeping time in the cup of your mandible,
as you gorge yourself on your honey.
thirteen suns will rise here before we know it, and you’re going to lay the table.
a thousand times now, I’ve seen you knead your palms into the meat of the earth,
the caverns of your baby body veiled by gentle fat,
teething—unconcerned—on these things I wish of you,
my girl.
Alissa Simon is sixteen years old and a high school junior living in the District of Columbia. She has been writing since she was nine years old, and has dozens of half-filled notebooks to prove it. She currently serves as an editor on her school’s literary and identity magazines. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards in the past. When she isn’t writing, she’s most likely baking or daydreaming about having a dog.