Strange Little Girls

I missed a day in Monda's challenge, which means that I have failed, but at least I ain't a quitter. Today I share with you something I've been collecting over the past few weeks. I call them my "strange little girls," these paintings and artistic renderings of, well, strange little girls. If you feel so inspired to write about one, please share with me. Or just give 'em a gander and wonder what it is in my personality that attracts me to such art (and write about that!)








And one of my favorite strange little girl poems, by a woman poet who, after I met her thought, "what a strange older lady."

The One Girl at the Boy's Party

When I take my girl to the swimming party

I set her down among the boys. They tower and

bristle, she stands there smooth and sleek,

her math scores unfolding in the air around her.

They will strip to their suits, her body hard and

indivisible as a prime number,

they'll plunge in the deep end, she'll subtract

her height from ten feet, divide it into

hundreds of gallons of water, the numbers

bouncing in her mind like molecules of chlorine

in the bright blue pool. When they climb out,

her ponytail will hang its pencil lead

down her back, her narrow silk suit

with hamburgers and french fries printed on it

will glisten in the brilliant air, and they will

see her sweet face, solemn and

sealed, a factor of one, and she will

see their eyes, two each,

their legs, two each, and the curves of their sexes,

one each, and in her head she'll be doing her

sparkle and fall to the power of a thousand from her body.

Sharon Olds

P.S. Tomorrow I plan to be back in full swing with a post of my own work, or at least some ruminations about disc golf, laying out by the pool, or the trip to the therapist's office.