Our Wee Circus

Sometimes I am scaled down, tiny, an inchling, naked and writhing in your mighty hand. One false squeeze would end me, one shake would break my spine, and dropped from that height I would shatter like a bone figurine. And yet I’m not afraid when you lift me to your mouth, stick out your tongue like a spongy pink surfboard and plant me on it. I am not afraid when your tongue slides back into your mouth and I stand under its roof like a nude Tom Thumb. I frolic with your tongue, speed-bag your uvula, slap the back of your teeth like piano keys and tickle the roof until you sneeze. Then I fly from your mouth—but since we have practiced this feat and we trust each other utterly, I tumble end over end through the air and descend in a looping arc to the floor. Like the smallest naked Olympian in the world, I stick my landing.