FiniteI sometimes wish you were small—
so small you could sail this little model ship
into the clouds and never have
to look at a bowl full of put-out cigarettes again,
or make those oh-so-obvious
black paper hearts that you tear
down the center only to
band-aid back together
when I assure you, once again,
that you’re not worthless.
Remember the license plate you had
on that old blue car—
the one that said DANCE?
I wish you’d do that again;
I wish you’d do it in the middle of that abandoned attic
with its weathered beams and emptiness
like we did as children, without shame
and without purpose.
You once said that everywhere you went
places looked desolate, as though the desolation
shadowed you, clinging to your heals,
encasing you like an egg you were
trying to break free of, your arm reaching
for the immensity of the sky—
for a butterfly of hope.
“I feel as big as the world.” You said this
one morning as you purposely spilled that cup