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Denim jeans tucked into work boots, partially gripping the rocky outcrop; we slip and conjure aspirations of bare feet, wrapped about stone and root, the valley flooded with water fresh as quartz. A local wind sweeps the crest, clouds of locusts high-tailing it to green fringes. Bare feet have us possessed. We try taking the summit with boots off. Skin glows like morning, then a bloody sunset. The locusts are angels and our feet their purpose. Rare trees die as we profane the terrain. Ants test any willing suspension of disbelief our oxygenated lungs trick us into: inside our boots damaged feet have no redress, no peace.
Note: the poem is preceded by the following epigraph:
“Già monavam su per li scaglion santi Ed esser mi parea troppo più lieve Che per lo pian non mi parea diavanti” [We now were hunting up the sacred stairs, And it appeared to me by far more easy Than on the plain it had appeared before.] lines 115-117, Canto 12, Purgatorio
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This text was added to the website: 2016-05-19
Line count: 15
Word count: 107
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