She catches her ankle on rusted out holes
in streetcar steps, impotent
for all of a day now.
Before she wraps her feet in onionskin,
she sucks mud
from her toes, rips the flesh
off them with her teeth.
Fingers slide through her ribcage,
cold, and she ties her hair to her wrists
with sailor’s knots each night, and in the morning
she cuts earthworms into eighths,
drops them into buckets of water and
swears each part can grow whole
if she looks away long enough and makes a wish
on each writhing piece.
Still she sinks through painted red floorboards,
too thin at the elbows and too thick
at the heels for baby’s breath.
Ground untouched for days and boxes of shoes
tumbling out of her closet like stones,
she cuts herself off at the ankles,
leaves her feet on hotel doorsteps
among empty beer cans and the smell of blood,
breathes in the weight of her feet and walks
like they are still there.