What if one leg isn’t in love
with the other any more,
can’t recall who smudged
the wallpaper, a darkness
spreading like virus across
the droopy fleur de lis,
its weak explanation for
where stars go in daylight
to untwinkle whose fault,
who kicked, who stood
by expecting too much
claiming it was support?
What if one leg scissors
itself out of frame, if one
truth stretches out its
cramped calf only to hold
down what the other wants
to sweep under the carpet,
desire bottomed into sofa
cushions, into atrophy that
unbalances stride, neither
limb willing to take the step
forward, to make two halves
of a split view whole again?
