my heel balances between floorboards,
halved by the middle creases,
my foot will not slip into lava—
no quicksand will swallow my limb—
the flatness of my arch
will not coat in the pollen
fetched from the day’s
my nail pierces my palm,
I can pretend a wasp found asylum in me,
burrowed into my openness—
abandoned me with a kiss so sobering,
I felt its sting
long after it left me in
coffee chars my mouth,
my tongue turns to graphite
and I speak in stencil drawings,
calligraphy in licks.
If I make a face, you will laugh.
this space stores memories,
my days file between ventilator gusts—
I pen through moments,
my tongue marking revisions,
tasting freshness at junctures
as they pass.