Knives raised in prayer

I hold the house in my hands.
It sits snug, comfortably, like
it was always meant to do this,

a destiny until now unrevealed,
to shrink so it could one day fit
into a pocket, to fulfil a dream

of micro-living we once had in
IKEA. To remind us that when
things get small enough – breeze

blocks, picture frames, vases,
arguments, despair, kisses –
they don’t disappear but instead

surround us, then become part of
us. You could inhale a lifestyle if
you weren’t paying attention, and

where would that get you? Let’s vote
for a doll’s house manifesto, where we
concentrate on the smallest beauty

possible. Knives the size of toothpicks
raised in a prayer because even the
tiniest voice is heard. Isn’t it, God?