Mother’s feet are calloused.
Dark, deep trenches under it.
She doesn’t like anyone playing with the flaking skin;
I would know.
The feet are like old, worn blankets,
And very oddly alive.
I have spent much time, curled under her feet
Where I don’t fit anymore.
Now we fit in each other’s heads instead,
Making spaces and places and faces.
Her feet have rubbed off on me
As my flaking skin brightly remarks
From under disgruntled beards.
Mother has calloused feet,
Callously marked with history.