Black Lost Boot

constructive criticism always welcome

In the middle of afternoon shadows,
I lock the doors.
I lock windows
And I also lock my soul.
Then I drop heavy velvet curtains
So that only yellow-red spills on the floor
And I can feel old.
In the middle of afternoon shadows,
Age has only two colours:
Yellow and red ink developed
On a photograph
On which I seem old and wrinkled
With the arteries of past.
I lie on the ground, a vitruvian woman
With legs and arms spread in all directions,
Self-sufficient and selfish enough to grow
Rhysomic roots which will make sure
My body will last.
But pasts are shallow
and I never gathered courage to dig my value deep
In history, national soil, or what people call home.
I only remember my grandmother,
Blaming a neighbour for stealing one of her boots
Just to upset her.
Her buying cheap cookies and showing that wedding
Photograph on creased paper.
On shabby picture, she looks more full in character
in the one dress she owned
Than I will ever look with my wardrobe
Full of identities.
I only remember my grandmother as a whisper of
Stories she repeated over and over again
And now I have forgotten.
Her getting married at eighteen, living through the war
And losing a daughter, her home being bombed,
And what else…I have forgotten.
I only remember my grandmother
Disconnected to my teenage chaos,
Self-sufficient and selfish,
Both me and her, I guess.
Deep down I think we were enemies.
But how well did I really know her?
She ironed the cloths with which
She wanted to be buried
And sewed her own dress.
She had one dress, one husband, one house
And a whole story
Lost in the black holes of
Her perforated past.
Did she warn me that with abundance
Things cheapen?
I only remember my grandmother
Telling a story that I have forgotten.
In the middle of afternoon shadows,
We cleaned her home,
And among all the things we found
Was the lost boot.
How much I laughed!
And cried at this!
All I have left of her,
Are her life milestones
And a black lost boot.
Did she ever warn me that

Pasts are shallow,

 too shallow for us to grow roots...

 

Reviews

[Circe]

oh gosh... this is one has so much nostalgic and emotional potency, it really takes me to another place. I felt a lump in my throat while reading it.. couldn't get over the wisdom you bring forth, the kind of living we are no longer attached to, that one dress and one house, one husband.. the sublime poverty of passed times.. it takes me back to grandparents, and great grandparents... what do we remember of them... "did she warn me that with abundance things cheapen?" wow... profound.. you write with real life experience and melancholy.. every word felt authentic and I get the impression of a girl trying to hold onto who she was, where she came from...

[Marri]

Thank you for reading it like this! I guess looking back has its own inertia...and if we are not busy doing something, we turn Janus-faced. Only when one really loves what he/she is doing, can one concetrate and dedicate to the moment. It's an honour to be reviewed by people I have utter respect for!

[Ken Simm.]

The vitruvian woman (I like that) linking herself to her past. wondering about the nuances of anothers life. This is a remarkable, consistantly strong write with its own inner beauty.

[Marri]

Thank you so much! As always your reviews stand as pieces of poetry themselves