All fours.

Palms in dirt,

leaning toward sanctuary.

You eternally hope

for that house.

I’d become pigment,

flesh of paint,

blood of color,

oils brushed,

spread,

immortalized,

give melody to your dead limbs.

Those squandered legs,

rigid, righteous and wasted.

Put a splash of me in the sky,

some in the field,

flowerless, unforgiving,

blanketing the earth

in dull sprouts of disappointment.

I’d sink into your frame

and teach you to run.

I’d sweep you up,

give toes their proper place,

tell them to frolic and

fall.

but until then

crawl, Christina,

crawl.