In my bruise — the fuschia shading like the inside of an OBGYN office — I found an image,
an apparition of the virgin.
Hail infernal world of floor burn and foot grime, salty skin and baby hairs. Of movement so
slow, the joints squeak. Pulled psoas, hairline fracture, snapped achilles tendon that rolls up like
a rug. The cinched waist of the naked ankle. The lone toe emerging from the holey sock.
Hail the small screeching of a nose with every breath in. When breathing speeds, its pitch raises,
heard only by dogs. Last time I tried hiking my leg to my ear, I thought I’d been shot in the
crotch. Bleeding from various orifices, I spread my mark on the spring-loaded floor boards.
Hail sugar scrubs and all they peel from the remains of my heels. The body of water washing away
the dead parts that remain. It’s a miracle there’s any of me left. The mirror image provides the
fire; the bodysuit, the kindling.
Lest the snow continue to give way under my weight, I should make myself scarce.