It's not a test, you say, but

what would you do with me

 

            as a worm, as a single ice cube,

            an escaping gas, a fleck of glitter

 

on your thumb. I know it's hard.

You couldn't introduce me,

 

            at any party, as your boyfriend.

            Or leave me alone with the cheese plate,

 

the rosé. You couldn't touch my cheek

knowing it was my cheek.

 

            Could you ask my sensory neurons

            to bring home the good Ben & Jerry's

 

with the potato chips and fudge ripples, or trust

my receptor cells to look over your tax return?

 

            I doubt it. On the Internet,

            strangers debate the debt we owe as lovers

 

and the measure to which it is owed.

Some think everything.

 

            Some, nothing. I think

            a debt of love is not the same

 

as one of care. I think there are too many

containers for the soul and a shocking lack

 

            of storage facilities. I think,

            in any event, you would handle it beautifully.

 

Probably you would nest me

in a Snapple cap or an ice cube tray.

 

            And, with a little work, modify all of your shirt

            pockets with picture windows

 

and take me, like you promised,

to Disneyland. Where I could not reach

 

            the height markers. Where I could not,

            through any feat of engineering,

 

be strapped to a boat or a rocket.

You would hold me, then. Show me off

 

            to the Matterhorn, the X-wing, the tail fins

            of the Cadillac Mountain Range.

 

Wow, I would say if I had a mouth.

Wow, you would say with your mouth

 

            that once kissed mine.