Little Tiny

During the night Tiny could not sleep, so she wove a large, beautiful carpet of hay, carried it to the dead bird, and spread it over him. Then she laid her head on the bird’s breast. Something inside the bird went “thump, thump.”

–Hans Christian Andersen, Thumbelina, or Little Tiny

I’d weave myself of wool the color of sun. I’d spread my body over yours 
and lay my head against your heart.

You’d open your eyes. I’d see myself: a tiny dot inside.


I call again. Night after night, a hollow ring. Where are you 
in your threadbare hoodie, eyes burnt-out moons 
against your winter skin? 

Floating down the river. Soot-caked under a train. 
Fighting rats for garbage scraps. 


When we were kids, my sister rescued birds. 
Her long-fingered hands would tuck 
& fix their feathers, wings. 

Now fly away.


Who will save me if I can’t save you? 


The window shows me moving closer to myself. 
Rain twins lamplight on the street. 


Outside, each puddle is an eye 
I will to find you. But my blues 

cover the view.
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