At Pottery Barn

I flipped the sand timers, all of them, upside down.
They are round and inviting, like pears conjoined by one stem
or two breasts. Some are large and some are small.
I see you, long hair, dark coat, with the thin girl in a hat.
You hastily return my furtive glance across the branches
growing from vases on a desk too full with stationary.
My fingers stamp intricate prints on the clear glass of the timers.
Are you watching as I watch the small ones fill? It only costs
six dollars. Do you see the certainty of sand, of desert
in balloon? It only takes five minutes for the last grain
to fall. I see you filling the thin girl’s belly
with baby, stretching pale skin with human. I see
your home, I see cream linens and wreathes and vases.
The large sand timers aren’t like the small ones.
When upturned the sand explodes. The bubble’s too big,
the fall too far, the grains don’t collect at all. You’ll need an hour
to see if they do; nine months for the baby to grow.
The large ones are perilous, overgrown gourds.
A child would knock one over.
Sand would fly. Glass would splinter.