House of the Tomato

If a woman wants to be a poet, she must dwell in the house of the tomato. -- Erica Jong

Regional website for the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, in partnership with the Reader's Loft.


Celebrating, sharing and inspiring poetry throughout Wisconsin.

Screaming Toes Pose

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.

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