Post — 1 Min Read


Post — 1 Min Read


We were all created

in the cauldrons of our


and our mothers mothers.

Or are we stacked neatly

fitting inside each other like nesting dolls,

throughout time,

through roots as

thick as tree trunks


Each foot fitting

Perfectly but imperfectly

In our shoes as we walk.

My shoes

Their shoes.

Our shoes.

The shoes of my grandmother

as she trudged

down the trail,

away from her home,

an intruder in her own country,

cold biting at her face

as she cradled her infant against

her body for warmth,

teeth chattering, eyes watering,

but still resolving to move forward.

The shoes of my grandmother

as she ran across the green

hills and the mountains

as though hell itself licked at her heels.


Always away.

Always running to ourselves,

to the next life

carrying that cauldron,

letting it swing inside of us.

The shoes of my Grandma Sammie

as she worked long shifts at the

factory, metal machines

nipping at her fingers

until one day they caught one.

Her shoes

as she took in strays,

both feline and human,

as she showed me my magick

at her kitchen table,

cigarette in one hand

tarot deck in another.

Her shoes as she slowly started slipping

into the grips of Alzheimers –

suspending her between

different points in time,

like a page flipping in a book

too fast for anyone to read to

read the words

(but we know them)

(we always know them).

Her shoes as she wandered from

room to room

searching for people who were

no longer there,

bony shoulders hitting

the door frame each time

she put one foot in front of the other.

The cauldron is carried.

But not by me.

Yet I still fit perfectly

but imperfectly into

each shoe

each moccasin

each leather boot

each clog.

I have no cauldron.

But I still carry the root.