It’s a glass jar.
I don’t know where it came from.
I was so little
when I found it
and poured myself in–
not safe
so much as separate.

I grew up.
But the jar remains
and I always fit.

I have children now.
And when I’m in it,
they pass back and forth
through the glass
as if by magic
to my surprise and delight.

Nonetheless,
I need to break it.
I know I do.

Pouring yourself into a glass jar
is for frightened children.

And whatever was out there
is always still out there
when I so slowly and so quietly
drip back.