Sarah Jordan

I Love Your Feet

I love your feet
your too big, mismatched feet
they seek me out under
the blankets until your legs
entwine with mine.
I remember
park picnics, you barefoot,
saying, people need to touch
the earth. We need to feel,
feel, feel the ground.
You wear black shoes
stern, professional shoes
because it's important
how you look when you try
to save the world.
I love your feet
being barefoot means being
at home, your feet naked
like secrets only we know,
many secrets.
Your feet took you
to India, Russia
and up a mountain where
you nearly died in an
avalanche, you
never stay, stay,
stay. You never stay still.
The skin on your feet is
thick and rough from a past
you try to hide in your
black oxfords but
they rest in my lap, now.
I remember the beach
you were overtaken by
the laughing sea
stripped to your shorts
you flew along the surf
white feet flashing like waves
as you ran, ran, ran and
returned, breathless.
That is why I love
your feet; your curved phalanges
and long bent toes; after
miles of years they at last
brought you to me.

Sarah Jordan writes poetry and short fiction, but her real-world job is as a graduate student at Columbia University. Contact her sjordan99@gmail.com.

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