A worn-out pair

Two holes burning through the bottom of my socks

like nails driven upward.

The deep wine-red fabric curls out

exposing my soft flesh; two

anomalous craters

open,

my body’s mantle bare to the world.

When was the last time my bare skin touched the pavement?

The last time my flesh calloused against metal?

I remember

the wide open days, the grass in the back field,

tricks over bars,

bush stumps and tree legs gnarled

over the dirt hill, that hill on the right side,

right there,

where we leapt

and crawled as animals, words from books, as children.

There too,

whispered words passed back and forth, his voice

hot in my ear, forbidden words caught quickly before

trotting away, stumbling

on the incline, his navy shirt and long socks

unblemished from the dirt surrounding us. And

how I was left there,

                                 gripped,

                                               troubled,

those words turning into phrases, those

phrases into questions, mysteries, unraveling

strings of yarn rolled far past that hill,

away from that hidden world,

into the one I know now.

I know nothing is really wrong.

That skin is just skin, no matter what is done with it.

That the room I sit in now is the right one.

These socks have worn past their wear, and should be retired.

I am not yet settled enough to do so.

Because I know, that

pair after pair, color after color,

my soles will burn white hot through and leave

blisters and burn marks

along my new hardwood floors.