warts

i reached for the amphibial too long. i blame
myself for all the ways i am not a smooth
beautiful animal. instead, i grow warts
on my hands & feet. belly white & toad-like.
i remember a doctor looking at me & saying,
"she still has time." the paper crinkled beneath me.
i wanted to jump out the window & be happily sick
in the star-soaked night. 
he froze away the warts. later, when i stood 
barefoot in the slime creek i decided 
i would do anything i could to grow them back.
i hunger for imperfection. to miss more buses 
& planes. to forget to text back & not apologize.
my reckless body. my reckless tongue.
we eat a pretzel in the rain. salt water on our fingers.
i pray to the patron saint of unruliness. 
they come to be in a vision holding a possum 
in one hand & a snake in the other. they wear
thrift store clothes that smell like basements.
i start bringing them offerings. a parking ticket.
a receipt to a secret shopping trip. 
they love them & tell me, "all you crave is waiting."
temptation is even better than giving in.
i bury the mailbox in the yard. start a fire &
throw in all my fingers like twigs. one at a time.
the truth is though that i haven't had warts
in over a decade. fallow flesh. cracked earth.
i beg them to come back. that home i had 
in my wilderness. give me the creek. the well. 
i go to the toads in the yard & they shun me.
i know i am one of them. or, at least, i am close enough. 
"help me break" i beg. they hide in the rotten
tree stumps. they do not even say hello. 
i go to the bus & do not miss it. rest my forehead
against the cool glass. outside, the toads sing.