Lace Skirt Bandage

The sour, parted flesh of two chided hands

needling through torso and grainy resolution to

produce cobalt fingertips underneath

an inflated, constrictive rope.

Two breathy, elongated slits slithering

from female center palm, to male

forearm intertwine, debatably matching

in size and vein pattern.

Brittle nails scrape along undressed,

salt-lick wounds, wrapping a rhetorical

candy apple ribbon around ankles,

of which are locked in a glass-like

dance pattern.

Dusted beads of perspiration

nestle in overlooked deposits

of under-sized life-lines,

and a lace skirt, a mere filament of

coral-red finish, for a bandage.

Geranium-white high-heel shoes,

the orphan of now misshapen belongings,

lies along as dead weight to a blue-lipped owner

who’s still, still

wriggling and layering on kisses

for hopes of gaining color.

Sore shoulder blades in the mandarin,

soul-seeking sweep of dusk.

Two chided hands ice-capped and

resembling the creamy, off-white

entrancement of a ballerina’s legs.