legs

i traded my fingers
for a new pair of legs.
they ran like wild dogs
all night until
i reached a lighthouse.
everyone has their butcher block.
the cleaver with a grin
taped into place.
my father once
had me get up on all fours
for him to inspect
my bovine. a fallen bird
is taken into the dirt. 
the dirt makes a feather tree
where we can go & pay respects 
to times we lost our softness.
i think it can be dangerous
to think to yourself,
"if only i had different limbs."
i do this though. i imagine
a body that would call me
to sprint from one scar to
the next. instead i am a sea
of appendages. i fish for my tongue.
i have a net to collect my toes.
minnowing blood. the moon
sewn back into the body.
that wayward organ. i bless my legs.
i tell them i was lying when
i talked to the foxes about bartering
for new ones.
no fresh escapes for me. just my
beautiful bruised & blooming legs.
i hug my knees to my chest.
come, let's go & laugh with the embers
of the polished sun. let's pretend
until we believe we are whole.
i trip again in the yard. tumble.
lay in the earth until a woodpecker arrives
in the tree above my head 
to say, "you are a violin boy."
i cannot tell if he means it as an insult.