Tuesday, May 25, 2010

But it's no obsession.

There’s a reason a woman falls apart when you ask for her foot and go after it a while with some lotion and a couple of strong hands. Sure, it has something to with the touch and act of tackling something few actually dare to. It also speaks to your accepting them, every last piece of who they are, exactly as they are at that moment. Even if it’s a foot that may have been inside a high heeled shoe, one that might be a little bit damp and not have a perfect sheen of toenail polish to boast.

Even it. Even then.

2 comments:

Amanda said...

This reminded me of one of my most favorit-ist Neruda poems.

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

*sigh*

Dainon. said...

Oh, man. I really loved that. Neruda got it right, on so many levels. Thanks for sharing.