This is called Amanda is Shod.
And this poem depends on an old sort of folklore thing
about saving your fingernail and toenail pairings
so that your enemies can't get them.
Amanda is shown.
The way the cooked shoes sizzle dropped
in a pail of cold water, the way the coals
and the portable forge winked out like hungry eyes,
the way the nails go in a slant, each one the tip of a snake's
tongue and the look of the pairings
after the farriers knife has sliced through.
I collect them, four marbled white
sees as refined as petrified wood
and dry them to circles of bone and hang them away
on my closet hook lest anyone cast a spell on Amanda.