Crazy Walter

Damion Michael Higbie

He tells me of the day he vanished,

peeled back the flimsy layers

of the world and crawled inside.

At first, he says, it was like going blind

in a meat locker--you just freeze, pray

you don't touch anything.

Then he raises his arm, the one

they've used up with needles, points

to that dime-store Jesus

above his bed. I heard him

in the dark, he says. Told me to walk

or loose my soul. Said I needed

to get clean. He smiles now,

because I don't believe, because

I bathe him every Saturday

with a sponge and have seen his polio

leg, slight and hairless, the leg

of a child, as if some exchange

had spoiled in his mother's womb,

as if a little girl had grown that piece

of him instead, had walked her life

off-balance, cursing the muscled shin,

the giant foot, the thick hair

she could never shave away. But I do

my best to humor him, say, No shit,

Walter? And his eyes move

in their yellow oil. And his girl leg

kicks once at the sheet.