The burning outline
Shimmering shape-shifter
The politics and teeth-grit of this nakedness
And each jealousy
Reveals a beauty,
Like dimpled thighs.
And I
Sit there sometimes
And look at my toenails.
Especially the little ones
They are so hunched
And the nails are lumpy.
To call them almost-claws
Would be to flatter them.
They are always dirty no matter how clean I am and
One of them is broken, never straightened,
so it is hunched in a hunched place.
They are all stunted
And I muse about growing them long.
I wonder where their grace is
(ah, me, the demons I see in thee)
Adding your comment: