The questions themselves are ridiculous,
they don’t have answers, or the answers
are all the same. Ask them anyway. That
is what questions are for. They are all ridiculous.
And just as absurd is the tenderness you feel
for the tiny life you hold in your hand, how you’d
curl your fingers and hide them, how you’d
hold them to you, and obliterate the world.
Hold them in the cave of fingers and palm and pulse
until yet another ice age passes. And then they’ll step out
blinking in the sun of your brilliant kind regard.
Their sighs are high and clear, your voice seems
so heavy you can weigh it on your tongue:
Love, are you sad because you’re small?
Or are you small because you are sad?
They are sad because you are neither.
They want to hold you like you hold them.
Size Writes 