Here’s another feet poem…
Screaming Toes Pose
The splaying of proximal long bones. Application of pre-
ponderance. From all fours, I tuck my toes,
sit back on my heels.
The yogi epitomizes the pain.
The years I've been on my feet, my back, my knees telling.
Black is the darkest color, a color
without color. A foot is a terminal
portion of a limb, which bears weight.
White is the opposite of black.
I sit up tall, looking straight ahead.
The yogi walks among us, sateen shine
of her black leggings, cutout under the heels.
The history of my feet in 26 bones, 33 joints,
more than a hundred muscles, tendons and ligaments.
Mostly I've been thankful for the locomotion.
I breathe in and out through my nose.
The yogi's definition of hands to heart,
black and white roses wildly growing.
The pattern is old, and new, and old again.
I swing a coat in that floral.
My mother left behind many coats.
My sister, too.
I release the pose, untuck my feet.
I see their angels in wildly growing.
My feet carry the thorn of many losses,
some gains. Children of children gradually unfold their petals.
Tenacious scent of roses diffusing spicy-floral.
I bring my hands behind me and, leaning back, lift
my knees to stretch the tops of my feet.
The arches of my feet less agile about flexing.
I always come back to the kneeling.