Feet

They have taken me everywhere.

They are heavy with stories

and never refuse the weight.

They walked me homeless

through San Francisco—

up hills that asked for breath,

down streets slick with fog and hunger,

step after step saying, keep going,

even when nowhere answered.

They crossed the San Fernando Valley

in heat that peeled the day open,

past warehouses breathing sex

through cracked doors—

rubber, sweat, bass thumping through metal—

my feet learning the difference

between danger and curiosity.

They carried me drunk

down Hollywood Boulevard,

laughing, stumbling,

stars cracked underfoot,

hope cheap and loud and everywhere,

my feet steadying what the rest of me

couldn’t hold.

They padded hospital halls

in grippy socks—

no laces because I was “too sick”

to be trusted with loops and knots—

each step a negotiation

with isolation, submission, and sedation,

until I was finally knocked from them,

and dragged.

And later,

those same halls again—

my feet strong enough to carry

newborn children,

their small weight rewriting the floor

as I paced,

the world suddenly fragile and enormous.

They entered temples in India,

in Thailand—

bare, surrendered, reverent—

pressed into stone worn smooth

by centuries of prayer.

They bowed when words failed,

stood still long enough

for something to finally land.

And then—

they always felt when it was time to leave.

They carried me toward food,

toward lovers,

toward nights that tasted like mercy.

They also carried me away

from love,

from care,

from promise,

from hope,

from dreams that had turned sharp,

from destruction dressed as destiny.

My feet have never judged me.

They have only remembered.

They have held every version of me

without asking which one should stay.

They are alive

with the knowledge of departure

and the courage of arrival—

still willing,

still listening,

still saying:

This way.