3 01 2009
Bones ruined to fit
an arched angel foot
into a three inch lotus.

Bound at home,
atop silk cushions.

The outside world
a raucous place
for flat-footed women
who argue at the marketplace.

She smells dust and chicken feathers,
on her large-footed Ah Ma,
who weaves a tapestry of nooses
around her shattered foot
and pulls tight the quiet threat.

Her whole life
is too much weight
on too sharp a fulcrum,
straining away from the teeter,
while fearing the totter.

Never stretch her feet.
Never run, breathless.
Only fold,
enfold at four years old.
Hidden from daylight
to become the twisted secret
her husband will unwrap




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