There you are, shrunken down to a squint
But no less powerful for that
Every time I press my eye to the hole
your image bursts into my brain
and rattles my nerves,
just as warm and alive
as before you were reduced
to the silvery tones of a photograph
smaller than my pinky nail,
tinier than the cap of my molar.
When I pull myself away
you disappear again,
sucked into that pit, trapped inside
your tiny glass-doored cell.
So tiny but like a flame still able
to bring me to a boil.
A pinch of gunpowder,
a drop of mercury. A couple of
colliding molecules. The kettle steams,
the blood boils. In this digital age,
the fact that you are printed on actual paper
and kept in an actual silver ring
(or pen, or novelty souvenir)
that fact that you are solid
if tiny, if thin
makes me shiver. I wish I could
shrink down and join you in there.
I cannot wait to take another peep.