The evolution of our steps
BY mariela tax / translation by willy palomo

Our knees were
our first pillars,
buttressing each fall,
each a lesson teaching us
to get up and walk,
even with dust in our hands.

Growing up,
it was our bare feet
that forged our first footsteps
that buried themselves in dust
that played in the earth.

Dirt-dark were our feet,
dirt-dark and laughter black.

Barefoot, we trekked,
and though it’s been many years,
in my chest I still feel
the pain of the pebbles
that skewered us each step.

Yes, barefoot,
because wearing shoes was a privilege
our feet never knew.

With time,
our footsteps took shape,
finding their path.
Our steps evolved,
moving from sod and plows,
between looms and classrooms.

When we finally dressed our feet
with little rubber boots,
sandals made from tire scraps,
or little plastic shoes,
our path grew,

but the pain of side-eyes weighed on us,
singling us out, murdering us.

We keep walking with firm steps.
Nothing intimidates us,
not even the show-offs with their feet
wrapped in leather and gold.
Not even those
who adorn their lips
in sophisticated words
and supposed culture.

We learned to walk
with firm thoughts,
carrying our heads like our feet
because those who would like to trample us
would not be content with mockery.
They also prowl in the middle of our misfortune.

We made a path from the trek.
We saw roses and thorns,
while others were only left with wounds.

Blessed be our feet.
Blessed be their steps,
firm, slow, sure.  
Blessed be our knees
and the scars
that circle them.