Water Feetby Rachael Lyon
Years later I saw her, leaning on the white lattice of a gazebo, hiding from the rain. There was a time when she danced to love songs and I envied her feet, how they pointed. I memorized her shoes, the way she dipped her toes into a wooden resin box, the floor just waxed, her figure walking upside-down beneath her, feet parting from mirror feet with each step. It was her way. When she leapt, it took too long to land. Now she is rounded, fuller, and blowing smoke into rain falling in stripes against the sky. She doesn't see me stare, but stubs her cigarette. Bless her. My feet are soaked and now I half expect that she will kneel and dry them with her hair. © 2009 by Rachael Lyon. All rights reserved.