Lotus Leaves & Darkness, two poems by Deborah Strozier

At three, mother wraps cloth around
my feet. Every day she binds them
tighter to shape my future,
her love bending toes to curl
like lotus leaves,
the small pointed ones
of a graceful dancer charming
princes of China centuries ago.

The pain gnaws my bones,
sleep interrupted, the only comfort
in dreams of a wealthy husband.
The law frees me a few years late,
feet too small for standing
or walking fast. I learn to shout
and raise the family alone,
sewing shirts until eyes burn.
My hatred is reserved
for these swaying steps,
always leaning
on a bamboo cane.

The model’s wrinkled brow consumes her eyes,
freckled face, and adolescence rant— abortions,
devil worship, birth control— trembling in her voice
that wilts the red flowers of her kimono.

My fingers grip the pastels, snapping crimsons
and greens. Strokes not harsh enough to etch the frown
of tense lips. A darker shadow floods her tight arms
and legs— ready for springing outside to kick dogs
and shoot guns.

Other students sketch the model with translucent skin,
long black hair, lips curving upwards, shoulders draped
with silk. Their soft fingers must smooth over
her lips and voice— until they touch another girl
dusted in light.