Marcia Aldrich

“So I loved you because I thought you would be fat.
I thought you would increase,
multiply, develop a big belly, double cheeks,
triple chins, dimpled knees.
I thought there would be more of you.

You'd stand out in a crowd, flaunt fashion.
We'd have to buy clothes
in stores catering to the big fellow.
In your hands birds would nest.
On your knees children would perch.

You would rock marvelously—
better than any rocking chair, better than any row boat.
You would conjure up the sound and feel of water,
the expanse of sea—its waves and calms,
its storms under control.
In your arms I would be sailing
without the bother of shipwreck.

All our gardens would grow
if you dropped the seeds.
Pumpkins would explode for fullness.
Tomatoes so heavy would collapse their vines.
Cauliflowers sprouting the size of streetlights.

Your voice would fill the house—
raise the ceilings, flood the windows.
I'd hear you in every room.
Over storms your voice would carry,
lightning would not diminish you.

What happened?
You are no larger than me.
Our voices fill the same small space.
No soft flesh to press my fingers
into deeply before I hit the road of your body.
Your bones are as clear to find as mine,
neither distinct nor hidden.
They are simply the usual set—
they suffice. They hold us together
with no genius.

The self you offer me
is not unlike my self—
no great dimensions,
no extraordinary appetite.
I don't live in the tower of your sound.
Trees are outside our human scale
and birds belong more properly in them.
The only nest we can build
is a nest for ourselves.
In short, my dear
you are my equal.
We can only grow
what every other can grow—
the seeds we have been given.”
― Marcia Aldrich