Valerie Witte

In the injured region, that is, inner thighs | we try binding

the mouths of wounds | Forgotten | the many scrapes of claws |

She didn’t want to be alone, nor tethered | if deserting

were quicker than decomposing, when all that remains are

margins, how to lift depressions | to swing a piece relative

to another, a combination of hinge

and nails | She just needed something to hang

from wood, a stalk and other wrongs, a procession of flaws | as if our fins

our genes analogous | when we outgrow

ourselves, a divide within which everything

depends, a greater area for corroding | collagen | in higher animals

the long bones of legs bow under | What she was built for, attachment

ignored | a sail to a stay | a plate written only, bound

at the heart | and pleated |