Smallness by Jacqueline Henry

Little ants on the table and a bug so small 
it looks like a speck. I just saw a Matt Damon movie 
about an experimental colony of small people, shrunken 
in response to overpopulation and food shortages 
and—you know, extinction.

But I wonder if we will make ourselves small because
that’s just what we do to ourselves—
Not being enough. 

And being like ants, replicating to be more. More than enough.
To make sure we’re here for whatever it is we’re here for.

Of course—there’s the other end: We can make ourselves giants. 
And be less. We can bully ourselves
into the universe and hover over everyone and everything 
like a stalking president—or anyone struggling 
with smallness.

We take in air—soap bubbles on a wand—
blowing up and blowing out until we pop and all that’s left 
are specks of spit and a belief of impotence and insignificance.

What we don’t get is that we don’t disappear—no matter how small or 
large we are, or were. There’s that essence, you know. It’s inside it’s 

outside, the line so so fine.

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