I don’t know how to respond
to this compliment
which I wrangle into place
by surrounding it
by self-deprecation,
direct their view to the rest of my body governing
these wee, elfin, gnomish hands,
these tiny, childlike empress
earlobes, these miniaturized, precious
bitty feets
being elephantine.
Sluggish. Immorally decadent, extruded
ill-formed
and an asymmetric center askew
from its poles.
You should be there. Naturally? I should be there, too. Making something, some salad dressing in a bowl. Easy, but requiring attentiveness, ratios, science, purpose. The fork would scrape in the wooden bowl as I emulsify the oil. It’d be near suppertime, but before that scramble to get everything set on the table. You’d be reading, still, in another world but contented to have your body in this one, unbothered.
The trains are running cargo. They are far off in the distance, but you can hear the Ferdinand in their charging horns riding the ambient…