The Emotional Orphan

When I cannot see your feet,

I think of your face.

Your face of Angel Stone.

Your sweet, hard face.

I know this face supports you,

And the overbearing weight of your past.

Lifting you high above the others.

Your waist, your breasts,

The doubled purple of your nipples.

The sockets of your smoky eyes

That have flown away because

the windows to your soul are closed.

My mighty and frightened little girl. (You’re not in a closet anymore.)

But I hate your feet.

Only because they walked upon this earth,

Upon the wind, upon the waters,

Until they found me.

Then they ran, taking you with them.