Bettina Hindes
Limp

The sky is burning, you said.
Your brimstone fierce and unforgiving.
Carrying little pieces of memory in my shoes
I am afraid I will lose them.
So I think of the way you held your head
As if a policeman would interrogate your motives for being
Sometimes I take out a piece and walk a little easier.
My soul’s climate:
A landscape of fear above,
Stones pressing my feet.
We are still united
Connected in my tread
But I’m still glad for the pain.