Lotus Feet and Approaching Joy​

Kathryn Bold

Lotus Feet

 

For years, I tiptoed around you,

afraid to make a sound,

afraid to rouse the angry tiger

and set you off on some tirade

over how much noise my feet made.

 

I tried to make myself small,

then smaller.

I tried to disappear.

I bandaged my feet like a Geisha,

so tight the bones broke

and I could no longer walk freely,

could not go anywhere without

you listening for my footsteps,

ready to pounce.

 

Then one day it hit me:

I could walk on a cloud

and you would still find fault

with the air beneath my feet.

 

And so I’ve started to slowly

pull off the bandages, unwinding

the wrappings that have cut off

the circulation from my heart.

One by one, they fall in long,

beautiful streamers.

 

I can almost feel my toes.

Approaching Joy

 

 

 

I thought I’d died inside,

so much shit had happened.

Then I found myself approaching sixty

down a two-lane highway that cut

through the Colorado mountains.

It was autumn, and the aspen

and the Gambel oak lit up the hills.

I drank in the colors, tequila and cognac

and shots of blackberry liqueur. Silhouettes

of black cows in the fiery fields

burned my eyes. Luminous clouds

filled my lungs, and leaves fell

from the trees and flowed into my

bloodstream. And that’s when I knew:

All was not lost. 

Kathryn Bold is a freelance writer whose credits include the Los Angeles Times, Hippocampus Magazine, Failed Haiku, Passager, Zócalo Public Square and the Central Oregon Writers Guild’s 2016 Harvest Writing Contest Winners Collection (for poetry). She’s a past winner of the International Imitation Hemingway Competition for her entry, “The Old Man and the Flea.” She recently moved from the high desert of central Oregon to Orange County, Calif., where there are plenty of people – but few jack rabbits.