Your feet are so lovely. So smooth, so blue. I know that they’re not right; I know that you can’t stand the sight, but I wish I could hold them, these hard little jewels. I wish I could hold them, keep them in my mouth. I know that you’re broken in so many ways. But I’m trying to help you, and I wish you could see: this might be the only good thing that you get. I wish you could love them the way that I do. The blue of the sky has nothing on you. It’s just you and I and these precious two. I wish I could hold them . . . until they release unbearable milk, and then I’ll become the lady who waits.