Walking without shoes
Joey Clutario
When I was ten and the world
revolved around cartoons, and candies
and little nonsense, I said to myself:
I will run to the field without
my shoes on. I will catch crickets
and would put them inside jars,
tighten the lid, watch them slowly
suffocate. And I would feel their heart
Beating inside me. Suddenly breathing
will seem hard. My father will come
and see what I’ve been doing. He will get
angry and will beat me with his leather
belt—its buckles will hit my hips until
they are striped. His knuckles would
brush heavily on my face again.
He’ll take me home while the crickets
resound in the field. While mother
stirs the pumpkin soup, father would
take the rag to the kitchen, grabbing
it with his fists tight, dunk it with force, water
bursting into the air, then wipe my feet very hard.
He would say, “what did I tell you about your shoes!”
But it’s too big for me. Too heavy.
He always tells me to never leave without
shoes on.