I can handle it so hot, I measure fire by feet.

My hair, a sour flame, cool aches blueing my feet.

I peel back citrus, skin, sapphire, blue, a quiet bleeding

in my nails, soft itch and red sheen blistering my feet.

Without a diagnosis I am just a mystery, a single pear

on the counter, or weighing a drunken breeze in feet.

Olive oil comes in refined, virgin, extra virgin: guess which one

you’d best like to dip your butter in, pour on a plate by the feet.

I made myself a pie because I love to; I made a cherry pie with no

pits but maraschinos, stood until numbing the bottoms of my feet.

When I feel sick or splintered or stop dreaming altogether,

grandma says to sleep with a sliced potato bound to my feet.

On the days my finger bones crack like cheap bucket crab,

a sizzling cob of corn, crawfish butter dripping a burn to my feet.

You tell me you are sorry, but I am the sore, sorry one.

A chair with two legs. A racehorse with broken, broken feet.

Women orgasm easier with their socks on. I stare at my soft,

naked legs, layers of knee-high, ankle, no show, bulked feet.

When the bones burn, I mean ache, I mean stop talking,

I need something heavy or hot to mummy-bandage my feet.

Arthritis is a sickness I won’t name. I am young; I am young;

I am young and there’s so much more to touch with bare feet.

My home: a mosaic of tamped carpet, wet cropped circles. I sit

with thighs stuck to carpet, criss-cross legs, blessing unruly feet.

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