90spoems/herfeet

Her Feet

In someone else’s old tap shoes,
a rough rhythm on the hardwood floor,
they wanted to learn Flamenco,
to dance romance,
brightly-colored cloth
swirling at her ankles.

Later her left foot drags behind her,
she hurls her weight, reaching for tables,
or walls, or steady chairs.
Her feet try to remember walking,
to command themselves at will,
without impulse from brain
or nerve.

The cane comes
and then the walker,
and finally the metal chair,
padded for comfort
in its continuous use.
Her feet are still
on the steel squares
as she watches Spanish
skirts pass by, and
says they would be
good for dancing.

And now her feet bend back
as though broken at the ankle
and wired backwards.
The toes curled tight,
her feet draw even tighter
at the slightest touch,
her knees pulled up
in an unwelcome fetal coil
she cannot escape.

Feet that ran free in childhood fields,
and later roamed foreign continents
sending home postcards,
from foreign countries,
before taking up a spiritual path,
a vegetarian diet, late child birth,
and a marriage that failed
when the feet did.
leaving them to
a life in bed.

4/5/91