When I was ten, we were dancing; I dipped
and he let go. That short fall broke three of my toes:
cold crutches in the winter, a cast across
icy steps. As these things do
the bones grew in
crooked, each node an accusation,
each weakness a knowing nod. Last year
the x-rays showed exactly what
needed to be done. In an ice storm
this March I clenched my teeth, watched
as my own hands rebroke those bones.
photograph ©Laura Kicey
