Our attic, plastic dinosaurs and 
other times I felt myself becoming too giant.

My brother and I were attic children--
stored ourselves in boxes-- mildew coffins
with our candy corn bones-- stacked
under slant roofs and blanket forts-- 
we reigned there-- between the jarred ashes of 
my grandfather
and his brother's stack 
of unclaimed purple hearts on a shelf--
a never-unfolded American flag.
an antique telephone-- crammed with missed
calls from the living room ghosts
who steal the rooks from chess sets--
a pocket watch still patiently at 8:32
a jar of rust-tinged paper clips--
Our attic was shoe box.
Our plastic dinosaurs learned to
eat gold fish and fruit leather 
from the hands these giants.
They bite fingers and thumb wrestle in the brush
--the flushed green of the carpet forest
floor between canted ruins of a Lego 
Parthenon-- and ship wrecked death star
beside meandering spilled marbles--
I am five-foot short and I have always
felt like a giant-- skin sown in the
earth from blood spit from clouds by Gods--
Did they tell you how giants hunch
like fortune cookies?-- We cracked
each other open by black windows-- 
plucked T-Rex up by the belly and 
gave him a straw hat and overalls--
no we don't play with dolls we teach 
dinosaurs that giants love is quiet and 
patient like an air conditioner or
a pizza bagel-- or a night light shaped like Mary--
Our attic had a drum set that we used to 
march when we were bold enough to stand and 
make all the dinosaurs scared of our feet--
shake the spine of the house like a Jacob's ladder
so that our parents looked up to wonder
how large their children could grow-- 
if we would still fit in the house--
if we would break through the rough 
and fall hard to the cement basement slab--
rain down the dinosaurs in their 
bonnets and bows and straw hats--
and pirouette of pocket watches-- 
smashed telephone still ringing with ghost
prank calls--
and we got too big to climb the stairs--
tipped our grandfather's ashes all the way down
to the basement where our turtle used to live--
We don't feed the dinosaurs anymore 
but we do answer phone calls from the 
living room ghosts--
we still feel like giants-- feel like shoe boxes
and attics-- Purple-hearted-- and candy corn
hip-boned-- broken fall on the basement floor--
We pick ourselves up in jars of paperclips--
stack back on a shelf 
by the black windows.