I have slenderized. I have gotten thin,
thin as a wafer, as a piece of string,
a filling, a poor man’s wedding ring.
Undressed of any excess, I blend in,
a blind stitch hidden in the tapestry
of the generations, a reluctant egg
shunning the lavish spray of eager sperm.
Why be a nine-months bother in the womb,
pumped with a bellyful of pretty hopes,
only to be born needy, colicky?
If I make myself small perhaps I’ll fit
in the stingiest fist, the heart that never has
enough to give, the bully who wants it all,
the glutton who piles his plate to avoid the sight
of needy eyes that await what crumbs might fall.
After the feast there’s bound to be a crust
on the master’s plate, a meal I much prefer
to one that requires a toll of gratitude.
Better not compromise the seed of self
to whatever power wields the watering can.
And so I hug my body to myself,
pull in my nets, fold and refold my flesh.
What will be left for death if I succeed?
Only a trail of print on a page as clean
as the dinner plate of a goody-goody child.
After the feast of summer comes the fall
with its empty cup. Why mourn the shriveled leaves?
Less and less to belabor or become.
A nibble, a sip, a swallow—and I’m done.
I am disappearing. I am almost gone.