The skin on my heels is weathered and tough,
cracked from the pressure of standing, and rough
to the touch of a finger, a thumb, or a hand.
I could make it smooth again, as I’d once planned
to pumice, and wear at the wear I have made
and yet, it seems that I’d rather it stayed.
For every callous, each sharp flake of skin
is there because of the places I’ve been.
Or just as the total result, day by day
of living my life and trudging the way
to home, work and nursery, there and back
in steady foot rhythm, a heartbeat or tap
of the world’s heavy fingers that beat out my life
with rhythmic precision, as mother, and wife.
Though the skin on my heels is cracked now and worn
I ask you to cast not aspersions or scorn
on the person who quite simply chooses
to live with the skin that she uses.