by Sarah McCall

I am tiny but these moments spin into a galaxy.
Hard to remember my size when the car is smashed
on parade day. My sister and I said ohmygod as the coffee
spilled and the 16 foot moving truck pushed us off the road.
As the bagpipes and the police sirens howled and the men
in uniform started to march. That car was unlucky but we
were not. Does this moment not seem gigantic? I need
to remember my size as I wait impatiently for the call.
As I watch my nephews eat scrambled eggs and waffles.
They are tiny, but are they not the whole universe?

It is huge, the wreckage of our words. My lover and I
feel unlucky at times, we shoot burning stars
of incompatible and fuck off — but our galaxy.
Smashed with laughter and we are expansive in love.
My art teacher friend at work says Google the Hubble telescope
when you feel too big, when the weight of words
makes your skin feel like lead. Don’t you know that
this moment is huge, he says, yet you are the tiniest thing.

Sarah McCall is a poet, waitress, yoga teacher, and student of all things wordy and spiritual. She recently spent six years teaching high school English, and is currently a MFA candidate at Old Dominion University. Born and raised in the Tidewater area, she loves to call Norfolk home, and seeks out the surrounding salt water as often as she can.