It had become meager,
the smallest portions of love
metered out in tiny bowls,
with tiny spoons even,
in gestures that implied
generosity
and she would smile
at the novelty of
the dollhouse scale
into which she had settled;
it was a full-face smile
so her eyes could close
pretend she didn’t see it all
for what it was
which was
just enough to hold her
feet glued down
in the pretense of it
the pretending
it was all enough
that stingy love
to which he couldn’t even
give a name
because that would be too much
don’t go fishing
he chastised
when she said she loved him
one last time,
trying to reel in the catch
she knew she had to throw back
before she got so small
she disappeared.
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
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