by Jalecia Reid
Wide are my feet
My shoes strain against the width while the others simply squeeze.
I have my mothers feet and she has her mothers feet too.
“Box-shaped”, “Flat”, “Funny-looking” are the words that have been used to describe my feet.
My feet carry the miles my mother and grandmother walked.
From Brooklyn to the Bronx and from the Bronx to East Cleveland, from East Cleveland to South Euclid and from South Euclid to Lyndhurst and back home.
My feet tell a story, one of victory and one of despair.
The cold concrete with cigarette butts that lay to the side have met my feet.
Congratulated them with scrapes, bruises, and scabs.
Have scraped off neon pink nail polish and skin.
The ground has seen me all.
My feet bear the weight of the world and still walk and run.
They slap the ground when I reach out for the prize.
The prize that changes so often.
The prize that sometimes changes when touched.
My feet always carry me home to the place where both good and bad memories lie.
My feet say all the words I wish I could have.