As a salamander I think about sex
rarely. Only when I tie my shoes, bent over
double. My husband did that

to me in a former life when I was a woman—
when I wore those four-inch heels
that warp your feet. The ones you
wear with nylons that double your toes
under. I was bent over jerking
panty hose up my calves when he grabbed
my middle, held my belly, stuck his penis
like a crowbar into me. Skin along my back turns
violet-green even now when I think

how I bit down on my ring finger, metal cold
and sharp, to stifle the scream.
They always told me to be still
and so I did. In fact I fell asleep.

Doctors said I was depressed.
Gave me pills. I took a lot.
When I died I felt

better. Now as a salamander, I hug ground
and sleep on a gray rock. I lick my tail with my own rough
tongue and wear shoes only when I visit mother
in her Victorian house with bars
on the windows and a picture of Ike and Mamie
on her piano.

Mostly I wear nothing. I don’t need moisture
cream or cleansing cream or wrinkle cream in this life
either. My skin crackles. Arms, legs dance
like flames in the sun.