Never big, I wanted, always, to be smaller–
a whisper of a thing–so my body
wouldn’t hang heavy on my bones,
so I could run up under a bush in the rain,
slip through a knothole, be inside
and out, outside and in,
unnoticed.  

Never loud, I wanted, always, to come to silence—
the point where my voice and yours merge,
thinned to a fine line, thinned again
till gone, so I could hear all around
finest utterings of water and birds,
so the sound of wind in the trees
would sweep us up, sweep us away.

Never at home, I wanted, always, to be lost–
to wake in unknown houses, find myself
under unfamiliar stars, wandering
down shelves of a dried-up riverbed,
on my own, unencumbered–
tucked away in an unremembered cranny
of a stranger’s dream