ManicDDaily

Ode to our Feet

Your feet are like slabs of dough
that could be kneaded, folded even in two,
and still would rise back with a little time,
into something between
ciabatta and submarines

that seek mine,
which are like caged birds
with cloths draped over
to get them to sleep–I speak of the socks I must wear
and not our sheets–
and speak of birds not so much
because my feet sing–except sometimes when nosed
by icy submarines–
but of how they twitter inside,
electrically, their too-many bones hooked
to those wires, my feet
being caged,
of how they need a wing to hide their heads,
being also birds,
and of how, being finally feet,
they are wingless,

and I speak too
of how you roll down the socks
and simply hold them
sometimes in the span
of mittening hands,
sometimes in some nest
of rib, some cove
of torso,
knitting a warmth
that wool just can’t
provide, purling from even these
splintered planks, a pooled
opalescence;

and too I speak
of how my poor bony birds feed
on that uncrumbed warmth
cast so sweetly
on these dry waters–

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Here’s another drafty poem for my prompt on Real Toads, to write something “under an influence.”  In this case, the influence was Pablo Neruda’s Ode to My Socks, which particularly appeals to this big sock lover. 

The pic is of some Christmas cookies made by one of my daughters (or friend) some time ago, and below is one of the pics from the prompt that is a watercolor of mine (that has some fit for the Neruda poem, where he describes his feet as fish.)