Pigeon-Toed
I could stand , square-shouldered , how you always drew me , in those straight lines and pencil shavings that cover where my shoulder blades might have fluttered once , might have torn through the paper . I could spin and plié and fold for you again , could drown each new sheet with my water-colour veins , could lock all your secrets under my wing . I think I have become too songless to keep , a half-sister of pavement chewing gum , catching flowers , but I can read between the lines of petal and leaf , hold my tongue under my teeth and these fleas on my back . I could stand , square-shouldered , count the seconds between my centimetre steps , pretend to be less pigeon-toed ; turn out my feet , blister my heels . There is an aching parade of my footprints that washes away with the next rain .
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