The Pygmy Giant

by David Tait

The three of diamonds I pocketed outside the Uffizi.
Your polaroids of Tiananmen Square. A set
of Russian dolls that we salvaged from a skip.
An impulse-purchase kayak sawn into halves.

The hand-clapper I rattled at the Bangkok protests.
A t-shirt from your Gareth Pugh placement days.
A copy of Rossetti gathering thick cobweb dust.
A clay pot for the dishes we haven’t learned to cook.

But most of all the weighing scales that stand loyal in our bathroom.
The broken way they tell us that we are thinner than we are.

David Tait lives in Leeds.