Inside

It is a wonder our ribs don't break

as your love pushes outwards--

drawing people in, singing and dancing

toward you. You might see us through

our eyes-- tiny in comparison,

or large when taking the ants perspective,

or shining in front of your throne.

And when you see us crying or begging,

is it from our inside out-- my hands in front of you,

as if I were drying your tears and not mine?

Or outside in, my cheeks flush, your hands

reaching down?