Footbinder

Age six, and runs, through white-hot courtyards
Past fountains, past fishponds
And the beating sun of China stops
Age six, and runs, through red pavilions
Up hills, past streams of no regret
Tomorrow she'll run no more
When will she come?
To wind my feet and grow me up
And how long does it take?
To bend the arch and hear it break?
Age six tied to the chair