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?