ive worn these shoes
five days in a row
but the days aren't in a row, are they?
they've curled in on themselves,
like the toes of my socks,
like centuries collapsing into an imprint

my father's voice follows me
through every lifetime
hes there on the dust roads of mesoamerica,
reminding me to respect my shoes,
because theyre the only part of you
that touches the earth
and lives to tell about it

as i slam the soles into the dirt,
i feel the ground remember-
not just me,
but every ancestor who wore these paths smooth
          some tracks are passed down
          pressed into us before we even stood
          and my heel fits perfectly in their absence

i think about latino men
watered in a drought,
praising their leather like relics,
never told that the same soles
that can press glory into the soil
can bruise footprints into the chests of others

still,
i wear these same soles today
hoping the road beneath me
          isnt the one ive walked a thousand lives before-
that maybe this time,
it will lead somewhere through the riches of the earth
away from the poverty of man