Bruce Bond

We who fear our smallness grow a little

smaller, cut and filed to fit the keyhole

in the mirror, to roll our spines into a ball.

My cat gets it, as does the mouse curled

inside him, or the many who surrender

their power to the crowd, the thousand torches

one revenant of light. One fire, one Führer.

The more abhorrence spreads the less it touches.

Once, I was too tiny for my body

and so pulled myself toward some center

I never found. What I believe, I see.

Death is nothing really. It’s everywhere.

In time I grew taller than my father

by an inch. When he died, he grew another.

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