I'd never seen your foot's underside, those sandals must cut like a corset, forcing you from toeing dirt, air. You kick lightly when I slide a finger between strap and skin. Tonight your ankle sports a new tattoo, scabs already blurring over the black outline of a penguin, stunted wings clipped close to his sides. The inside of the tattoo is uncolored, still growing hair. You had expected pain, a little buzz, like my teeth nipping along the top-point of your ear, but not the sight of blood-drops neatly lining your skin. We stretch out together on my couch. The narrow muscles of your feet arch proudly on the armrest, showing me the first wobblings of this rooted bird, now running, now trying to take flight.
return to the study: