They are as pale as a lip of bone, despite the dirt they converse with. Narrow as an isthmus of sand. The shape of her toes are the name of a dish I love to eat, but can’t pronounce. Each arch a clean windshield, not yet pockmarked or scarred. She dresses them in red ballet slippers, clunky light-up rain boots. Every sole’s surface is meant to take her outside. She cannot stand them to be tickled, and yet asks us to try. They have walked the plank of her father’s back. They splash her sister in the bath. I can still touch the lid of stretch-marked skin where they grew within, but if I press them to my ear, they no longer tell me where they’ve been.
Quinn Rennerfeldt earned her Bachelor’s in Creative Writing at the University of Colorado at Boulder and currently lives in San Francisco with her daughters, husband, and menagerie, though her heart belongs to Denver. Her work can be found in Slipstream, Cider Press Review, Bird’s Thumb, Sassafras, Progenitor, and BloodLotus, among others. Find her on twitter: @QuinnFairchild