some days

my legs work the way i want them to

and i can walk to the corner for coffee

without limping, 

or wanting to cry

on those days i am proud

my cheeks hurt from smiling big

i walk everywhere

carry sacks of groceries the mile from

the shop to my house

walk the greenbelt and down through the tunnel 

where, once, years ago, i sat with two men

passed a joint around 

and sang the blues until morning

walk to get lost, just to feel the 

blood rushing down through my feet

but most days i wake up

and my ankles are swollen and red

i take the stairs one at a time, slow and steady

hearing my bones creak and pop like dim, 

muted gunshots

i thought i could get by, going slow 

until i healed

but spring has come and with it the swarms of bugs

mosquitos and spiders starved from

months of cold

when i sleep, they come up from the floorboards

and feast on my ankles

chewing at a buffet of my flesh

i claw in my sleep and when i wake up

my feet and legs are pocked, open and raw

the bites grow so big they look like

hard, small eggs pushed up under my skin

and i scratch until i bleed

i cannot scratch hard enough

spring has come and i am crippled

trapped inside, steeping in this pain until

i am a tea too strong and bitter 

to drink

siblings ( a rehashing of old times )

The first time your sister pushed the needle under your skin

                                                                                                you were naked, smooth and white.

She bloomed color onto your chest and you exploded

                  blues and reds.

You cried like a baby and shook under the needle and clenched your toes and 

                                                                                                                                 whimpered.

                                                                                                                                                                       

She laughed when you moaned,

and begged her to stop. 

Told you to grow up.

                                                                                     Grow up.

You came into the shop a boy and left still a boy

(but stranger, less of the one I knew)

and when I peeled away the dressing and rubbed lotion on your broken skin,

I pitied you with love.

In the night, you leaked blood onto the bed sheets.

I didn't have the heart to wake you.