Podiatry (Work In Progress)



I look at the scars that healed

on my legs and feet,

extremities that will one day

take the brunt of lectures from a podiatrist.


What abuse story will best explain their condition?

During elementary school recess,

lunch ladies used to like watching me

outrun boys in a jumper dress, knee socks

and navy blue ribbons at the end of my pigtails.

When I was pushed from behind in second grade,

I was sent skidding on gritty concrete

until it tore off all the top

layer of skin on my knees. And when mamma

saw me in the front office

with  band-aids and a zip-loc bag of ice,

all she told me was “You really need to be a lady.”


They also remember the warning: “You know, if you

get hurt, we can’t afford to take you

to the hospital!” This was after I twisted

my ankle on a friend’s trampoline when I was nine

and mamma didn’t even have to ask why

I limped between hiccuped sobs because, “I knew it.”

I still get spasms in my right foot

whenever it’s cold, or when I flashback

to the blackout pain (right now, for instance).


Note: More to follow (once it allows me to). This poem is going to get long. 


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