Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Bandaged feet

Black haired, brown eyed:
premonition.
The age of 4 to 7,
when bones are soft and malleable.
Sodden in hot water,
dried, scrubbed, clipped.

The moulding begins:

Soft white cotton
causes sheer pain.
Folded up four toes,
these bandages uphold
the broken sole bought
by bondage of status-quo.

Around they go;
the wraps that ensure
the condemnation of liberation
in this culture of woes.
Sewn shut the strips,
put on the pink silk shoes.

“They do not hurt when they look beautiful.”

The shooting pains; shear of cramps.
The splendour that stop men in their tracks.
Rooted;
we cannot run,
we cannot hide.
For these binds tie to what is ‘right’.
Tipping and toeing on that straight line
where pierced gangrene is sublime.

Two years in the making;
3 inches long.
The crescent moon shape,
ornate shoes,
for a thousand years
defined who we were.

63 years further,
black haired, brown eyed:
I’m 6 inches short of premonition.
Toes free to move.
Feet flat and bones unbroken,
stepped out of silk shoes,
Soles exploring something new.
Click. Click. Click.
The new bind begins,
as I slip into the ridden black skin of these



stiletto heels.


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