Of Worlds Small
Model/Sculptor: Esther V. Aulta
where the furnace roared with Dickensian furor—flames alive--
and her only company, hiding in a cubbyhole, was a mouse
who twitched his whiskers and swayed his tail for conversation.
The door slammed; the lock clicked; dust dropped from the ceiling.
The mouse scurried to patch her up, then said his salutations.
But she did not wish to talk and, despite trying, she could not.
So the mouse slipped away, never to appear again, now folklore.
She built worlds, gathering string and cigarette butts and sand,
making piles and sculptures and characters and stories and friends.
Her husband-turned-kidnapper had forced her to become God
of all the odd sets she would forever craft in the basement.
The moon was full and blushing, not blue, despite the freak event.
He opened the dungeon door in silence, eyes averted, hair wild.
She stared up from her place on the floor and grabbed one set
before heading up the stairs, barely brushing past him, and out
into a land of sunshine and rain and clouds and many, many mice.