by James Moran
When your body collapses onto mine,
I expect you to make me feel small:
smaller than the head of a burned matchstick;
a promise tucked beneath a whisper;
cavity in a tooth.
When it’s over I’ll be a broken-winged sparrow
in your hands, a shattered compact mirror;
clod of dirt you mistook for a rock,
now clay and ash slipping through your fingers
in a stream of dust.
Whether you like it or not,
you’ll make me into these things
because I’m willing to become them.
And when you come inside,
nothing can prepare you
for what I’ll become next,
what I end up becoming.