I wish I could paint
you red, and fuse
your four fingers together,
on each hand leaving
only the thumb free.
I would take
your too long ties
and bind your legs
into a carapace
so you thought,
“I am protected”.
But you would have
forgotten the heat
of a tin shed in July.
For once, I would
feel no dread
at the sound of
tapping on a pot lid
and eat my meal
with joy as thousands
of tiny, hungry fingers
drank the ocean
from your arms.