Lilliput

Once when I was a child,
something happened while I lay in my bed.

The ceiling came unglued from its child heaven
and spread itself over my limbs.

I was as heavy as the planet. I was planetary.
The sea, all seas, were nothing more than the sip

of water I'd swallowed hours before turning
down bedclothes.

My clothes, if I was thinking about seas,
were too nothing to count, not even sea foam,

but they crested where I willed breasts
to hillock and cave.

Later somebody told me there is a name for this.
It's called a Lilliputian Hallucination.

The brain subtracts spacial dimensions,
volume, from any equation.

Since childhood, it's happened again and again,
the most frequent bout of believing

myself the entirety of our hot heaviness, full
of tiny seas,

was when I carried my first child inside me.
When I stretched and felt the wet blanket of the sky

yawn and buckle. The stars
all constellating Lilliput, lodging in my throat.