One Hundred and Ninety Three
11.17.16
Pablo Neruda
Your Feet
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
•
I write in all sorts of places, I prefer cafes for finishing work or if I have something more “concrete” – that just sounds funny in terms of poetry but anyway -. I like cafes, because it is easier to sit down and type and stare out of windows, but I collect words from everywhere I could, gutters, bars, street corners, bedroom, public bathrooms, public transportation, my dad’s army friends, my mom’s matriarchy, the wrinkles around my dad’s eyes my dreams (for these I wake up and write so I don’t forget), just anywhere that life and death flows – and of course some of the words (equal part for what I found outside) pop up and found you.
One Poem At A Time 