Camille is a wet-dog woman. She smells
like puddles of oil. She sits under
a tree heaving pine cones at passing cars.
‘Camille Loves No One,’ is carved into the tree.
Beneath it is carved, ‘Camille loves many.’

She steals a law book from the library – 
Missouri Reports – and hides it
under her bed like pornography.
Humor is not lost on her, but she seldom laughs.
It embarrasses her that her body
could become so out of control that it would buckle.

Her shallow eyes reflect only the darkest
shades of light. She is a secret man
, a private pervert. Her lower back
aches and she feels as if she could walk.

A man has his two-armed grasp on her.
He is tall and wide and carries himself
like a serious freakshow. It is his
process she loves – his guts and odor. Camille writes
his name mantra-like on notebook paper.
He calms her like coffee so she can sleep.
He watches her closely.

He idolizes Camille – creating She-whom-he-
Wishes-to-be – to hold himself within himself.
He searches for her into – her hidden front door,
a hole through which he might jimmy the lock.
He finds his name written on notebook paper – like
a grocery list – and wonders if he will always
fit her, or even

if he does now.

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