It is a tragedy of humanness that we so easily fit into containers

That are too small to hold us. As a child I could hear

The roar of the distant ocean from my balcony. Now I live

Closer to the ocean but can only hear waves of cars

On the freeway. Compared to things that can bring us closer, there are many more

Things that can separate us: freeways, landlocked states, work schedules,

The dirty dishes you left in the sink, and your fondness for foods that crunch

And crumble apart. And arguments, as well. I wonder if I long to be the crumbs

That spill or the ones you swallow—the confusion of intimacy being

As it is. I could try to live in a box with you, but not a

House without you. I could try to say that my body is a mountain

Range with valleys and saddles for you to explore, but no one has yet

Longed to scale me to feel like they conquered something, like they stand

Above everyone else looking down at them. The view from my body

Does not make anyone disappear into the distance.

As a child I read a book about a boy who went and lived in the Catskills

In a large tree. Not the branches, but inside the trunk of the tree. (Would

I fit inside a tree if I am a mountain?) The only problem the boy had

Was that in the winter the temperature would drop too low and

Then the trees might explode. I might explode. I might

Shatter. I might become an avalanche. I might

Pour like lava through the room and take the crumbs with me. I’m certain

Your shoes hurt because you are too large for them. I’m certain that you

Hurt because you are too large for this room.

Bio

Stacy Little is a math student in real life and a test prep tutor on the internet. She has lived in California her whole life.