Podiatria Poem by Diane Lee Moomey

Oh sweet phalanges, bullied long and hard—
just one more mile—dear metatarsals beaten
into whimpers, tossed a bone. I promise
to polish all your nails. Red. Beloved

feet—the Kmart canvas pounding on
concrete; the decades of stilettos, sequined
evenings ankling in time to played
and unplayed notes. Divinely ruckled digits,

talus bone on bone, the tibia
in ruins—now you balk in fine rebellion
and I'm sitting out the dance. I'll take
you, yes I'll take you now to one who'll love

you well, who'll cut and paste and staple more
and more titanium into this body—
new for old, new for old. I'll lie
supine, with foot be-plastered, sculpted white:

calcif'rous curves, first liquid, then as ice
upon a frozen lake. A ruffled gauze
will peep beneath the edge. The nerves will jingle
like piano strings. For weeks I'll keep

you tethered, finally will set you free,
with promises orthotic, podiatric:
to stroke your curves with unguents from the East,
to wrap you well in velvet, give you wine

and chocolate.