after ‘Das Lied des Zwerges’ (The song of the dwarf), Rainer Maria Rilke


Crooked blood, stunted hands, cripple,

out of place – uncanny how small

thoughts can be, while I’m incomparable,

only a dwarf because the so-called average

person is taller. You ought

to just walk on by, but don’t. Ever thought

how inflated you must look from this
height? When I walk or shop, I’m inspiring,

it seems. Fantastic to see you getting

out, you say, imagining waking

up in my body, the courage

you’d need not to kill yourself, stat.

How do you do live with that?

That’s me wondering back,

distractedly eating (wow!) a sandwich.
In my home, I’ve made it so I come

face to face with the cupboards and oven, belonging

as we all want it. I sleep in my bed (some-

times alone). At work, my cubicle’s longer

and wider than yours. True,

this isn’t much of a song –

but then it never was meant for you.