The Thief

Amy steals from Woolworth. Because she likes to. There's nowhere to go

but up

for someone only six.

Maybe she'll grow up to be a teacher or a brain surgeon but

for now, youngly agile

she pockets blowing bubbles and colored pencils and chocolate,

hides up her sleeves painted fans and tortoise shell combs and

bubble gum and little toy animals which she cannot love,

really.

Amy steals food from the kitchen. Because her mother thinks

she is too fat to be

allowed to eat. And she's hungry. There's still a lot to learn

for a person just ten.

Perhaps she'll become a nun or a ghost or some other disembodied thing but

for now already sexless

she palms bread and cheese and cookies,

stuffing quickly into her mouth cakes and meat and vegetables which cannot

love her and

she never cries.

Amy steals things from her father's dressing table and

her mother's handbag. Because she needs them. There's no better advancement

for some body soon sixteen.

She'll certainly be a racing car driver or a prostitute

or another kind of addict but

for now, by now compelled

she takes money and business cards and cigarettes,

lipsticks and condoms and small mirrors

and she hides in the woods watching the reflected faces of Others,

smoking with their lips.

Amy steals dresses and wigs from big department stores. And jewelry.

Because she has to. And there isn't anymore

Amy. There's no achievement possible

after almost twenty.

Perhaps she can work as a spy or an actress or

some one else without a name

but meanwhile

She is a raven-haired murderer, a blonde mistress and a red-haired painter and

She is clever and admired for her beauty and invented wit

and stolen talents, and She poaches affection and compliments and She is

of no substance . And no one

knows there is no more Amy who has herself

been stolen and supplanted by the creations of this

damaged baby. There's nothing left to do

for any One except

get caught.