by Robin Gow
In my doll-house life, we eat only
the plastic pie and the table-top lemons.
You stand at the window for weeks
while I take a dry bath in the blue tub.
I tell you I want to move to the city again
which is a lie, I just want to test
how far you’d follow me. My 1/1 self
is shaving his head again and sweeps the hairs
from the bathroom floor. He can’t get close enough
to the scalp. I count wallpaper stripes.
Open the front door to see all giant-ness.
Sky-called ceiling. I used to spend all my days
wishing to be that large. Wishing to be full.
Instead, now I yearn to be even smaller.
I want to be so miniature I forget
there is largeness anywhere. Then, I want you
even smaller than that. My beautiful speck of dust.
Closing my eyes to hear your voice,
I’ll ask you, “Can you tell me about
what you remember of the old apartment.”
Softly, you’ll list the tree full of yellow jackets
and the rail road’s aimless call. We’ll sleep
as grains of sand do—with fear and joy
at the wild sun. The windows have been growing
since you left. He runs his hand over his head.
Our tinnier selves run between those hairs.
The forest is anywhere that dwarfs you.
Sometimes that is my own hands, searching.