Giant, down here, c’mon—

Jules Gibbs
OVULATION IN TWO PARTS
I.
She’s shrunk and slipped into my pocket again
where she’ll keep shrinking amidst lint and the residue
of pulverized paper scraps worked cloth-like.
I finger the dark seam but she’s too small to hold,
an egg riding a wire, message
un-received, a broken code.
It will all end in crushing, as it always does.
She might fall, pea-sized, out of my embrace,
roll across the linoleum, blown, a dust mote
swept away. Or become lost in my mouth,
mistaken for a grain of rice. I may find her
like a faceless flea, drowned in the wash bucket, a gray sea.



II.
If it’s not this dream it’s my battle
with the orange giant who’s on a killing spree.
I ride his monstrous thigh, thinking my small sex
and new breasts can save the villagers. I’m no more
than a newborn sparrow, a cricket, a bee,
something he could flick away, a trapped voice pleading
the impossible: Giant, down here, c’mon—
you know you want to fuck me.