Look down at my leg as I write,
so white, so bruised, so capillaried.
My thighs tell the story of ill-fitting shorts,
bad photographs, insecurities,
ownership, a vice-like grip,
you: one among many,
my selectively promiscuous ways.
A warm home for kittens, a way
to hold others’ kids, while I wait;
always waiting, for my own cats
or progeny, my own blood-vessels to be
worth something more than bruising and
keeping my own breath alive.