Light bulb over bed floating in space — Image by PN art intern Danielle White, @yourdanidoodles.

Associate poetry editor Lauren Sparks on today’s bonus poem: In poetry, a body becomes dexterous in a way only the line can tolerate. This is certainly true of Lloyd Wallace’s compact yet vertically unbounded poem, “Science Fair.” In a mere 15 lines, Wallace pulls us in and launches us out as the speaker takes a tender look at motherhood, circular frames, magnification, and expanse.

Science Fair

Under the microscope, I watch my mother
light a very tiny fire in her very tiny

bed. Her very tiny cigarette has fallen
from her hand. She doesn’t know it.

She’s dreaming very tiny dreams.
The tiny fire, though, is growing.

She used to tell me that she dreamed,
sometimes, of being tall enough to whisper

in the ears of satellites. She was so tall
in these dreams, she said, she had to duck

to keep from shattering the lit bulb of the moon.
I hope she’s having that dream now.

Under my microscope, she’s burning.
In her head, she’s grown so giant

she’s holding God between her palms.

Lloyd Wallace is an MFA student at George Mason and an editorial coordinator for Poetry Daily. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in the Adroit Journal, Peach Mag, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @jockeycornsilk.

Tip the poet on venmo @lloydwallace