Nirmala I. Vasikaran

The Feet

The feet, in actuality, revoke all possibilities of being rooted.
Like grass.

I see grass almost clutching at the wind when it comes by this soggy afternoon;
the grass willing to take flight.

It seems like shelving a pair of dancing shoes,
to have feet and not to have run with the wind.

But the feet carry roots like a sore, so that their capacity to run will only
diminish and diminish.

In the habit of speaking multiple multiple tongues, no word is ever good enough for
the paradox of a sore that provokes running and the running that never can carry the sore
too far away.

So I rocked shut as a seashell* that cones silence so intimately,
 with an opening that doesn’t really let in.

In the event of one breaking, there will only be stunned sand and dried salt water
clinging to the metallic skin, ever wishing to keep their secrets.

(* from Slyvia Plath ‘Lady Lazarus’ Ariel London, Faber & Faber, 1999)