Rosalynde Vas Dias Model

You agree to sit for
the miniaturist.

It takes all afternoon,
but you don't mind—

idly gazing out at
the crisp skeletons

of wildflowers poking
out of the snow.

Then he shows you
yourself, very small,

hands folded, eyes
far-off looking. That's

not me, you think
as he scoops you up

off the table top,
slides you into a glass tube

stoppers it, and pockets
you and the little portrait

too, all clanking
in his coat, bumping his hip

all the way across
the field.


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