...and if I melted my way into
your glass globe
ice village
with its imitation snowflakes dancing,
and me, aware it takes too little
to be convinced of a fantasy,

if I reduced in size to miniature
to fit the landscape
permeated that shield to gain admission
to the path of fictional geography,
climb the steps of the village church
stroke the chickadee beside the reindeer
enter the pinks and turquoises
of this land saved upon a dining room shelf
would I feel warm or cold
in your snowglobe?

Do you think I would escape
whatever harsh edges I haven't been able
to bear here?
Perhaps the plastic flakes might
magically erase memory forever?

Perhaps the water bubble that must never
be broken, would float me
in a clean, sweet scented
womb, safe from the future?

And might I see the faces peering into
my pastel scene? Their mammoth curiosity?
their hands reckless
to flip me and my new domain
over and over.

Inside the church, I expect I'd pray
for gentler hands
perhaps of grandmothers, the kind who know
how to protect porcelain dolls
from over-eager children.

I think I’d be too oblivious
in my new insulation
to care what the outside world
thinks or does,
and, mesmerized by my surroundings
whispering to angelic pixie friends,
decide never to return
to the old role of voyeur.

12/02/2000