Michele Rappoport

Trace

I have no website. There is no way to find me. I once was a thumbprint on a form. It asked if I had done criminal things. Twice, again. The search came back clean, but I know better. I sit on a picket fence like a cactus wren. I feel nothing. My foot is mostly dead but alive in certain places like Latin. The doctor said he could carve out the neuroma or shoot it with saline. Either way, I would no longer dance. I have hair that brushed his lips like cobwebs. The only sign I was there.