Dig

MARGARET BASHAAR

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