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Soles of Her Feet
- Mar 28
- 1 min read
by John Mitchell
Her breath smells like raspberries and it looks
like she’s walked on lump charcoal
the soles of her feet warm from living
barefoot in a childhood she’ll remember
vaguely as a dream of a world
out of proportion. Things will begin
approaching eye level (inevitably)
as trials grow and expand
like a bed of coffee beans
bloom and bubble as boiling water
makes fine coffee grounds into drink
the flavor changing as it cools
though she won’t know that
unless she tastes it; won’t learn
until she burns her tongue
from lack of patience;
won’t see her need
for redemption
until her eyes see that
the soles of her feet
are not the only thing
that need washing.
