#26

thumbelina

once i wanted to sleep in an eggshell
live in a nest
sip dew from a petal
hide in your pocket as you suggested
wings folded up
smashed against your beating
heart
i could walk the lines in your palm like a maze
roll through the meadow of your hair
hang around your neck like a charm
that was before
you married someone regular-sized (though slim)
and had two children

your students liked my books
to them i wasn't a thumb
now occasionally some of mine will say
"when i met you i was surprised
you are such a regular person"
i never know quite how to take this
(i think they are referring to messy hair
worry lines, dust bunnies beneath the couch)
but at least they didn't expect me to be tiny, did they?

when i finally find the real "you"
he'll be able to look me in the eye
we'll stand side by side
he won't be afraid of my body
changed by two large babies
he'll be able to take
all of me


Comments

  • Jessa Marie Saturday, 15 September 2012

    love nest i am a tiny bird inside a fat suit with...

    love nesti am a tiny birdinside a fat suitwith scars on my bellyi am wondering when my wings will be strong enoughto flymy father built me this nesthe knew i would need itwhen he flew the coopbranches brittle brown like my skinlittle twigs like the bones thatache under all this flesh, ihave created this obstacle, thismassive, oozing gut, fiftypounds of regurgitated wormsif i fall, i shallsurely explode on the pavement,one wing torn from mybody, twistedand open to rot alongsidesun-ripened garbage.(such a beautiful burden.)

  • Alana Noel Voth Saturday, 15 September 2012

    I like this one. XO A

    I like this one. XOA

  • Cassandra Friday, 14 September 2012

    "I could walk the lines in your palm like a m...

    "I could walk the lines in your palm like a maze" I could never have enough treasure boxes to collect your beautiful words.

  • Exitonpch Thursday, 13 September 2012

    Creek The bed is cement a flood control channel k...

    CreekThe bed is cementa flood control channelkeeping the stick houses that crowd the banks safeexcept where floods broke the wallsand they brought boulders to fill inwhere ever the relentless wet pounding had torn it apart.But most of the year it's just thin a meander through accreted silt and sand, tires and junkas reeds strain to drink the sunor feed the sturdy and opportunistic egrets and ducks, gulls and crows, swallows and coots. Each spring wingsand beaks lay claim to another nestwhich must be hidden in the warm.There's no place to drop a line in the waterno overhanging trees to give shadeit's not deep or clean enough to swimno surprising bends, no flats an 11 year old can cast in,and the beaks don't really make much sound.But they will stalk what little fish scurry, floatthe fluff chicks - a tiny, downy fleet -whose whitening shells still litter.In a few months the nests will wash awaywhen whichever caretaker rain godconcludes his pact with Ceres' lineageand brings down heaven.It's then the creek rememberswhat it's like to pulse and growlfree, for a bit, to muddy the bedand not just lay silent in a civic collar.

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