—sculpture by Susanne Ussing (1980)
Mom said she dreamt of little girls
while I was just a guppy
nestled in the crook of her pelvis, curled
in on myself, shy from before I was
even a real thing, not
ready for the world to know
me yet. She never dreamed
I’d become this massive; ghost,
guttural scream at the foot of her bed,
depression nestled like a dead fish
in my gut. Always been too big
for my own selfishness. Woman in the glass
house grows to fill the space
she’s put in, is made of paper
and bones and spitfire. Born
to be contained, held
together with iron and glue. The artist
(her mother) adds another layer. She grows.
She is kneeling, always,
even in art she must be naked, crouched,
miniature, Lady Homunculus. Here,
in the glass jar, distilled air, thick
with vanilla, she becomes
herself.