Fitting In

Do hands and feet have
to be an appropriate size?
Was a standard size of bones
issued someday,
unbeknownst to me?

Because my fingers are
spindly, sweat-slick vines
that fit no ornament or jewel,
bones of fog,
they vanish as soon as clasped.
Screwed into palms that
stretch like a never ending
yellow desert,
they are streaked with paths
darkened by lines of fate
set atop a red land
of life-giving blood.
And these palms,
these palms
know no other,
they are defective locks
that fit no key,
metal rusting away
into the heavy air
with no house to guard.

Because my feet are
descendants of cyclops,
untamed,
they smash into
wooden corners
and crack into floors.
They are thick cacti,
the trunk holding up five
protruding elongated arms
I call my toes.
These thorny paws
settle in no shoe
they enter,
and with no place
to rest,
they wander—
adrift.

Do hands and feet have
to be an appropriate size?
Was a standard size of bones
issued someday,
unbeknownst to me?