Barefoot Runner

Each morning, I unlace my shoes, cast them to the roadside and run.

Others run bare through the grass, through the sand,

but I cannot cushion myself.

I run through the briers, the prickers, the thorns,

and my feet pound on pavement and gravel.

Yes, lovely, I am washed in blood, as you once bathed in blood.

I still see your stain–I still smell the stench.

But memories fade, and I risk forgetting, which is not forgiving.

But I must not forget, for I am not, no I am not forgiven.

At first it came easy–the blood and the pain–

but the calluses do not break easily.

Don't worry, sweetheart, the blood still drips from my feet

as it dripped from your wrists.

And the howling wind brings back your cry

that I kept pushing away.

I do not forget. No, I cannot forget–

you know too well that I am not atoned.

Honey, I'm running, I'm running, I'm running.

I'm still unforgiven and I still stain the ground, the earth, the world.

*Imagining a world without forgiveness: Dante's Inferno, Match Point, and the man running barefoot in the park helped build this poem.*