A paper bucket filled with candy
wrappers lazes by her bedside
while she daubes around
her wicker room. Creased-sharp
swans slough off her skin
so she can feel the chronic
mending her bones. Every breath
crinkles like wax paper peeled
from shrinky-dink keychains,
while she buzz-drills holes through
her cast-iron wings. If she stitched
her skin to the wall, would it cover up
all the yellow?