My Feet

 

Are a clogged up drain, 

Holding up all the crap, 

I refuse to flush out.

The roots of the tree, 

Dried up and burnt out.

Dull and dark and numb.

Sad stumps left behind 

By a sad storm.

The doctor takes a pin, 

And stabs it into

My ankle and my toes.

'Do you feel? Do you feel?'

I say, 'Not really. There are still places 

That are alive. Poke me again, 

And I will tell you this time.'

He tells me to walk on my toes, 

Tiptoe on my heels, stretch my arms

Out afar, and see if I could still be me.

I look around his room.

I'm bored. I don't even want

To feel anymore.

I drag my soul out for a run.

I will not give up on me.

Struggling to move fast, 

My mind is a rudder, 

My body a boat.

We make it through.

We always do.

My feet are dying, 

My eyes already dead.

My heart a fluttering fish, 

That's gasping for breath.

The doctor suggests electric current

To check where my nerves fail me.

I say, no thank you sir.

I will wait for time to heal patiently.

Limping and stumbling,

I find a corner to sit still

I massage my feet.

My hands tingle and burn.

We are next, they say.

I hold them in each other.

'That won't happen. 

That will never happen.

You are my favourite part.

You are the ones I can count on'.

I look to the rumbling sky, 

There are stings of lightning every where.

'Heal me Father. Heal me Mother.'

I sit in the wet grass and I pray.