Every toe, like a daisy picked and planted,
their roots wrapped around my bones
and licked tips in translucent pink.  
I place each sole on slightly dusted
wood board floor before hearing
the window pane being beaten
by hail, my vanilla skin riddles itself
in jealousy.  I felt lonely
like only the rain wanted me
and not even the piano on the stereo
could save me.  Where was God now
but rendering herself on the slightly
more stable existence of window
panes of dark brick Chicago complexes?

I was supposed to ****
her a long time ago.  Not because
she never loved my toes but because
she did, and she loved them better than I did.  
I remember when I’d lose my fingertips
in God's chest bone and they'd disappear
like a song I loved  but was never the same every time
I heard it.  Kind of like classical music.  
I never remember the composer's name
but I knew that tune.

I pulled the green string holding
my dress together and let it fall. When I die,
don’t let them keep my clothes.  I was somewhere
between letting that dress dangle by the single nail
I forgot to pull from the window sill, hang myself there,
still living so much anyway or sailing my big toes across
the linings of the wood, spun on them, let my threads pull apart
against the wet sill; dripping half opened window.  
But then, to both these thoughts I stopped.  

I just stood there naked.  
Until the sun came over my neighbor’s roof.  
Until the window was dry.  
And there was nothing left to be jealous of.