Poetry

Atalanta's Feet

Atalanta runs,
Not like the river,
Not like the wind-
The river stumbles over rocks
And leaves bubbles where it falls,
Crashing to the riverbed,
Stirring mud and shame,
But Atalanta's feet are sure-
Her red toe nails flashing
As they rise and fall-
No, not fall-
They are set down
And picked up again,
Gracefully refined and controled
By Atalanta,
No one else.
Her dirty, crinkled soles,
Bend and flex,
Changing everything they touch,
Pounding, Reaffirming
The strong,
Lifting away the weak-
But which am I,
The dirt that clings
To her callused foot
Until she washes me down the drain?
Or am I the ground,
Pounded down,
And left
Behind
Forever?