soft gore in a glass slipper.
walk with me; drag me up the lectern
and read out loud the different shapes:
stitches bunching up, callous peeling off
in the shower, little holes where my body gave up.
tendonmilk to make the room more humid.
say you’re a cave made of eyelids.
tell me to kick the pew benches
until I slip on my leaking body,
until someone wraps me in wet blankets.
a dove where my foot used to be:
a swan wrapped around my femur:
holding the leftside organs in a squirrel nest;
the spasmsong of twitching toes;
the shy wind between my knees and the road.
