Wednesday, January 24, 2007


At midnight, in the alleyway, I walked through black puddles in bare feet.
In mid-step, there was only enough weight to sweep my toes between the water’s skin and the ground’s concrete solidity.
The hovering of a young woman.

In childhood there was no weightlessness,
There was certainty, trees and soil, the bottoms of my toes grasping dead grass, and the sounds of young voices speaking of God.

Looking out into the sky, squinting, with the breeze bringing smells of my thick black hair too hot to touch,

Warm hose water clinging, seeping into the lawn,
Wilting roses.

I was wiser.

Back then, hot concrete, baking in the summer sun, was what gave you calluses on the soles of your feet.

Floating was foreign.

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