What If Ankle Bones Were Plastic
Could you say it on the missed connections page? That all my veins
were distorted with blood, my face was redder than a normal human’s,
but it still flashed Warning! Warning!
And you were drawn towards it, like seeing an arm being roasted
over a fire, unable to know the origin of the scab along the forearm, burning
as if it were bark, along the stick protruding through the end of the elbow.
But you thanked the reader at the close of your wanted persons ad,
as if it were a speech you were proud of,
as if you had not had on the mediocre push-up bra, setting up pale flesh, coupled
with the space of only a shadow. Yet, you lift your chin, wear the gold
and move the finger of your most noble left, pointing towards that building,
occupied by the whispered gasping and muted hissing of the air escaping
from bags lining the throat, pitched and punctured, the blade slipping and digging
at the stone under the skin on the front of the testosterone channeled trachea,
popping it from the stretched skin, polishing it between the folds
of the cracked leather jacket, where I keep it in a pocket near my hip.