WEBVTT

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I think this poem-- again, it's
about when I was very young.

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And I think it tells
its own story, really.

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It's called "Zimmer
Guilty of the Burnt Girl".

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"Once a week, the burnt girl
came pedaling to our house,

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touching her sweet rolls
with raisin fingers.

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Her raw face struggling
like a bubble through lava

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to say what she had
to sell and why.

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Please buy my sweets
to mend my face.

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Always I hid behind the piano
and heard my unflinching mother

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quietly buy a few and imagined
apricots shriveling in sun,

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spiders boiling and
dripping above matches.

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Always when the
burnt girl had gone,

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I heard my mother
drop her purchase

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in the rubbish to be burned.

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And I came out to see
the pink grafting,

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the horrid sugared
layers of the rolls.

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I do not want the burnt
girl to come again.

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I am guilty for her and of her.

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Always in fever I
think of that face.

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Sometimes in love, I
believe that I am fire,

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consuming myself.

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And the burnt girl
suffers from her love,

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from my love, as she sells
her rolls to mend her face."

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