my legs, legs anyway, fall off in church
(it happens everydamntime).
before i leave,
all sundaybest and lipstickstraight,
the legs are sewn tightly on
(sometimes i match the thread to my dress, but sometimes i just use my hair)
and you can't, I swear to god(lowercasedoesn'tcount),
see any of the sinewed cellulite,
promise.
the legs are bloated dead fishes,
neatly strung and pinkbellied up,
bobbling,
coldly,
on the surface of some salty bath.
(i can smooth my dress down, see?)
and it's barely noticeable how they hang deadly
beneathmyhips.
they are fine on the car ride
(but don't tell me the loaves are broken, too).
at the baptismal font
(i'm barely through the door youfuckers)
the threads loosen
(yes i tied it like a rosary)
and buttons are popping off
loudly
allovertheplace.
and by the time i'm holding the wine
you have to lower yourself
knees cracking
as i crawl in supposed prostration
dragging those legs behind me,
straining the few grafted muscles and they snap apart like gum
(my elbows are rubbed raw from the carpet)
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