1I wonder how many times now
you have come to help me
put my feet back together again?
It seems I always somehow
stumble, trip over these
heavy rocks where my feet should be.
Then you always find me surrounded by
the shards of shattered mud and you stoop,
scraping red clay beneath your fingernails,
mixing it with blood and spit
until you can form it into feet again
just for me, though I don't know why
you bother with such things;
I'm just going to break them again
and there are others far more deserving of
your attention. And yet you come.
You come anyway, no matter
how many times you've come before.
And I look forward to your coming,
look forward to the unsteady wobble,
the loud crunching, the inevitable pain
that means you'll be coming soon.
Time and time again, I break my feet,
just for you to mold again.
I wonder if this is what love means—
or maybe just desperation.