so I slip through the cracked kitchen window.
I’m too tiny, anyway, for my knock to make a sound.
Instead, I float around until I’m noticed: a cartoon
aroma, a speck of dust. When she sees, she wafts me
to the table, offers pie and potatoes, and I say Oh,
I couldn’t and It’s just so rich. She smiles, takes my wrist
and swings me by her side, as a child might a doll.
She offers an empty cup on a tiny saucer with make-believe
tea inside. She takes out her wedding dress and has me try it
on so we can pretend I’m a bride. How exciting, she says.
I’m tiny, so I might not have to pretend for long.
Later, she carries me to my bed and tucks me in.
It is tiring, being so small, so perfectly placid. It is tiring,
opening my mouth to eat, much less speak. At least
when I’m small and asleep, I don’t have to dream
about my body. I can dream nothing at all.
–
Jo Clark is a poet from Charlottesville, Virginia. A current MFA candidate at Syracuse University, she reads poetry & nonfiction for Salt Hill Journal. Her work can be found in Volume Poetry, UVA Today, Prospectus, and elsewhere. When she’s not writing, she’s thinking wistfully of her childhood dogs.