Feet

By Libby O'Reilly

I never noticed the hairs on my feet – primal –

until they were in the grass and exposed to sunlight.

Nor did I pay attention to the intricate veins,

the simmer of flesh; how my toenails curl.

I shave the hairs on my big toe, I did not recognise

the rest discreetly hiding in plain sight.

All the times my feet were rested or held

in the lap of a lover. The one repulsion we learn

(we must) recover from. Feet make us worthy,

yet now I remember the hairs on his navel; his back;

the animals we were.