Old and frail,
a sugar
sculpture
in a world
threatened by
storms.
But the real
shock was
her
feet, as misshapen
as I
imagine
the bound feet
of Chinese
women
might have been.
My future
beckoned—
the aborted wings
long have
wreaked
memory and desire
against my
back.
My poor back,
its skin
continuously
gathered to fatten
the puckering
nubs
atop each collarbone.
The claws
ending
her feet. The
fists bunched
on
my back from
reined-in wings.
We
are connoisseurs of
secrets, the
biggest
secret being how
we lost
all
rights to pray,
“Lord, have
mercy”
once we lost
desire for
mercy.
