Feet are flesh
and have been flesh
for thousands of years.
Saying wisdom is fresh
is the vanity of a present-age.
Better minds have spoken before,
challenged their own authority and
didn’t take death as seriously as
Keeping honour was the only
crucial wealth, reciprocity and
the graciousness from host to guest.
Mothers loved and mothers grieved
with same weight of worry of motherhood,
and lovers held hands, wishing for great blessings
to match their great love.
Music was poetry and poetry was
the greatest gift of all bestowed, poetry
to keep humanity sane, stretching
further into the heights of immortality.
Feet wore sandals, raced across
Mediterranean shores. Hands
were always hands too,
beautiful, complex, useful.
Healers were rock-like with equal
shadows and solidity, attached to the earth,
rituals woven from the lion’s breath.
Warriors too, took their virtue from
the mountains, climbed and often leaped –
breaking bones, arresting their pulses, lusting for fame
and a good afterlife.
My feet are soft like many who have feet I know.
Compassion still counts as the highest offering
offered from one to another.
The suffering of one resonates,
relatable across centuries –
to the suffering of all.
Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Rasa Literary Review” August 2020
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: