I had very extravagant things
to say about the bones in my feet
when I realized I couldn't feel
the pinky toed under steps bearing me home.
Scientists insist the whole continent
is moving East and I know
the motivation across the liquid
is my splitting hooves
at war speed and
the snap and crushed apple flesh
wound tight in threads of cotton nerve
insist there are little fingers beyond
the rock disjointed from the cement
like howl jarred calcium come
down in Blue Ridge caves
to the beat cut and gashed
at muscle tips and 'tronomic fists.
I had very extravagant things to say
about the heat winding through
the fibers of my fingers and back
down my sides like forty lashes
to cure frost bite and the trickle
little licks of it that faded
through my calves and
the knot of achilles
before I realized I could not
possibly be the electrode
touching her insides and making her
so magnetic and easy
to press.
I had very extravagant things to say
about the bones in my feet.
They are harder than they've ever been.
And the part of you left in me
would be proud of the deformity and
the places where my soles
are tearing and the path
is searing through
me and the slag that holds me still and
more than giving up
or not
you would be proud to see my
heels and broken toes
on the face of this.
Tired and full and together.
