Wounds

Polychromatic blood leaks from the slits in my ankles. In another world I plant a garden of cosmos. In another universe I lay across my lover’s piano lasciviously. But in this world, my essence spurts out with the pressure of my body weight. Why did I carve windows to sinew and bone? In my ear, curled up and sleeping, my daughter dreams of some sort of purple peace I don’t understand. My love bandages me with magnolia petals, calling my windows “wounds.”