You think about being small,
a child. No. Smaller,
a bird. Smaller still,
a small bird. You think
about the art of holding,
of being held. This hand
can crush you.
Pulp and feather you.
Could release the air
from all your little bones.
You grow. You are large.
You are a 19th century poem.
All of America is inside you,
a catalogue of lives and land
and burrowing things. You contain
your beloved: a field, a building
of softening wood. The birds.
Always. The birds.
Soon you will be a person. Nothing
will change. Your body will be of a piece
with all other bodies: the thrush,
the dormouse, the great black bear.
When you open your mouth,
there will be only air.
Tighten your throat. Sound,
inexplicably, like something lost.