Stuffed with
ash
and confetti
the bones
cringe.
Ancient
marionettes,
alone
forcing
movement.
The body
is sacred,
start
with the
feet
the toes
smooth
and plush
and
tender,
a baby’s
hand,
near
perfect.
Nubs
constructed
to be
caressed
wept over
wiped
dry.
The bottoms,
five-formed
starfish
mapping
vital
organs.
God
could
forgive
feet.
Moroccan
leather
spikes
the envy,
shoes
the color
of
menstruation,
your curse.
She dances
forever
in them,
your colors
fall like
apples.
She dances
past
the grave
of your
mother,
up the aisle
and out
through
the
tombstones
the shoes
grow
deep
into you,
bleed
into pulpy
stigmata.
There is
no hope for
separation.
“Cut off my
feet,” she says
to you
or the DJ.
Carved of
wood
to the
ankles
they sever
easily,
no longer
toes
they are
marks
of
repentance.
With
repentance,
death.
The rest
is
consequential.
But you do
not
dance
with feet
alone.
Her smile
moves you
and you
follow.
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