Wet Feet Are Part Of Life

by Renwick Berchild

Worry about me later,
for barbarians are coming over the hills,
carrying long pikes and angry words,
searching for reasoning they do not possess.

My sleepless nights are a gene inside me,
melatonin leached from my skin,
my fascination with the moon, my dark monarch
taking flight to greet the lamps lighted.

So turn your attention to the crowds,
who I can hear beneath my window, banging
in my prophetic dreams. In their heads
is a hum, that needs healing.

Stop fussing over me, cut
your constant visits to my door, do not pad
the corners of my furniture any longer;
your caring is exhausting.

I tell you, feel free to love me, but then
leave me be. Other things need attending, and I
loathe your hovering, your wondering
how I am each hour.

I am as I was and will be; so quit
this fathering. Get your patriarchal arms
out of my house, and go do
what is useful to the world.

You want to be of aid? Go lend
that sturdy back of yours to my neighbors
who have lost their home to fire;
they could use some assistance.

I have been carrying boxes for people all my life.
Stop trying to carry my boxes. Find your own
damn purpose, you have a stern brow,
a gentle way, so go.

I’ll be here for your return. I’ll come
find you when I am done. Let me
to my alone, my space and thoughts and actions.
There are loons howling.

Go on and try to calm them.
Lift that young child to your shoulders
and tell her she is strong. I am aware
that I am strong; your insistence is redundant.

The wild things are lit,
I’ve seen their torches raised; go douse them
with your intellect and kindness,
and give balm to those burned.

My body is fine. I am aware
it’s a woman’s; that is how I slay the unslayable.
That is how I manage to lift
you and all your brothers each morning.

You battle amongst yourselves, everyday
I have to bring you a hot cup and tell you SIT DOWN,
and slow, and breathe, and take
time, or you won’t know yourselves.

You are a botheration in your heroism;
I am fully capable of taking care of things.
Go on and find those
who are lost in all the chaos.

But do not concern yourself; I know
where my home is. I circumambulate the center
daily, my meditations and deliberations
never fraught or fearful.

I am what I am, will do
what I do, try what I will try, accept
what needs accepting. Do not lay down your cloak;
I like puddles, and wet feet are part of life.

But some are out there drowning.
They need you far more than I do. So make
and pack a lunch; I’ve got my own hearts to tend to.
Go fish those with outstretched hands

out the water. Then meet me for dinner, and we’ll talk.


6 Responses to “Wet Feet Are Part Of Life”

  1. Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.

  2. thank you for this. We all need to hear it.

  3. So many bits of this are gorgeous. Constantly cutting.


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