Scratched,
and scruffy,
my toenail polish
peeks at me, non-alluring,
from sandy feet.

One-third grown out,
it's looking…ridiculous,
punctuated by pulsing.
Veins of blue – as sentries-
adorn my feet, my hands…

Three loopings of faded black cord
seal my ankle’s circle. Tied,
and hung with blood rubies
in a small clear vessel.

Suddenly, I feel a need
for moisture
to preserve my polish,
and myself.

I spray into the tree,
with the hose on jet.
My misters are missing
my silted form.
But not the drops of water
from my sloughing,
my desperate raining
of me.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 6/5/04