The Return

The cracks come back in August,

when the heat comes down,

always the same heel, always the same place,

like my body's trying to drown.

I stood in the drugstore aisle

looking at gray stones in their shells,

each one wrapped like a promise

that this time I'll break free from these spells.

I've bought them before.

Three times, maybe more.

Each one sits in the bathroom

until I forget what I bought them for.

The heels crack again.

The same geography of pain.

My body doesn't learn,

or maybe it does, maybe I'm insane.

I pick one up. The plastic

is cool in my palm, feels true.

Industrial. Honest. It knows

I won't use it. Or maybe I—