Photo Credit: Michael Harnar
He adores the severe folds of her feet
the breaks in their backs
their undone hides
and her toes, so many dead caterpillars
with heads coy into their abdomens.
She: his certain delicacy.
Perhaps coins in each foot's crevice.
Perhaps ginger in her soft origami folds.
And the yeses.
there is styptic
in my step and
a toe in your mouth. What more may
I give a man whose hips
whir like a loose
Before leaving, she embroiders
her lips dutifully – silk insects and blossoms
singing in the cross-stitch.
The only skill she can remember.
She buries herself, head-first.
Her bound feet: spring blossoms.