another carried the tiny.
An odd pair, people thought
they shouldn’t have anything
in common. Yet, they shared
the same apartment, played
fantasy football together,
double dated at the drive-in
on the other side of town,
one arm around each of their
girls, the oldest touching
something so big the sky
got jealous, the youngest
an item so small atoms rolled
around in envy. Each night
the first soothed the gigantic
with a story about infinite love
in the universe, and the second
reassured the unknown world
it was shrinking each day.
Then the lamp was turned off.
In their bed they dreamt about
their objects melting inside
each other: a faith dissolving
within the lens of a microscope,
a nucleus dying on the cross,
electrons shaking to save us,
stars dwindling in our eyes.

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Donald Illich has published poems in The Iowa Review, Fourteen Hills, and New Zoo Poetry Review. He has poems forthcoming in several journals, including Passages North, Nimrod, LIT, The Sulphur River Literary Review, Plainsongs, CrossConnect Magazine, Xavier Review, and Cold Mountain Review. He works as a writer in Rockville, Maryland.