broken glass

i don't want to be little
i want to hover just above the ground.
you put me in one of those
bug capture containers & we travel
to where the town turns mud.
everything stuck & everything broken.
whenever we pass those apartments 
you ask if we can drive by
to look in the dumpsters. you sew me
clothing in smaller & smaller sizes.
first newborn & then glove-sized
& then i am just a paper doll.
you tac me to the corkboard 
of our lives. there was one afternoon
we found a piano. you told me to 
put it in my mouth & play 
& so i did. i tried so hard. all the keys
were discordant & you said i played
like that on purpose to attract flies.
i promised i did not but every word
i spoke came out as camels. i never meant
to be a music box but then there was 
a key & then it was sunday night
& no one else was around. i cling 
to my old life like a mussel. 
in a puddle i watch a miniature ship
sink. the ant-sized humans run & scream
& i say to you, "i do not want
to be that small." you say, "we'll see." 
i know my self. if we pull over we are 
going to find a tomb. you are going
to ask if i killed the man & i will make
my next false admission. i sympathize 
with every kind of prisoner.
especially the ones who grow 
so many wings they do not know
where to hide them. mostly i wonder
what you would do if one morning
you woke to find me in the yard 
as big as the red cedar? would you
still love me or would you walk me down
to where all the dead sofas & end tables live.
would you lay me down there 
& tell me to wait to be found?