They seem to be at peace with legs.
This is what I envy so.
The satin cross of bended knees.
Meditative. Yoga style.
I wonder how they pitch the tent
and keep it up when seasons turn
and leave them there like
driftwood digging in the sand.
The hot-to-trot of carry on
that leads me like a puppy's leash.
Flooded engines of denial
with rancor's tears instead of oil.
Asbestos wings they call a prayer.
I've tried them on like overalls.
They always seem to pinch.
Here I sit and wile the days,
a teacup rattled by the night.
The pictures of my wasted legs.
Hidden well behind the dog.
The packages of tragedy
in boxes on the closet floor,
Street lamps full of steaming rain.
Syllables like sinking ships
without a pier to harbor them.
Moons ignored and passing by.
The looking glass, its edges sharp.
I'm overtaken by the fog.
A finger puppet. Statuette.
A cherub in the normal sky.
Her legs like tapered candles
in the dark that told me
she could dance the dance.
The one that I could not.
An idol and a hologram.
Her graven image set in clay.
Of tinsel hair and perfect thighs.
The ones I'd never have to shave.
You taught me plastic princesses
because I wanted paragons
and virtues of the flesh.
Bible-thumping Barbie dolls.
Defining femininity.
Her swimming suit would
always have a pair of legs to
stretch the curves and waltz the eyes.
Mine would sag like curtains torn
and hanging by a thread.
The archetype of crippled air
and waffled skies of incomplete.
Attics of pretending smiles.
Ankle bracelets of despair.
I had to trade them in, you know,
like bookends for an empty shelf.
For wings unbridled by the tears.
And loosen notches of a dream
I didn't write myself