Murano, City of Glass

We watched the glass blower

fall into a kind of trance,

his body swaying with the music,

eyes glazed with the rhythm,

the molten glass alive in his hands.

But when the show was over,

we wanted nothing from the shops.

We left the tourist-crowded paths

for the beach of glass

and an adventure, just ours.

Through glass leavings,

earth made of shards, sand,

and a little dirt

holding it together.

Hesitant at first,

we jumped down

to where low tide exposed

the glittering glass refuse.

I found small creatures,

imagining them into being

from oddly shaped glass,

while she gathered colored globes,

perfect as paperweights.

We ate brie and salmon

surrounded by our treasures,

bread, scattered crumbs,

and reflected light.

After filling our bags

with what the sea had polished,

we wanted nothing

the shops could sell us.

Your Goose Is Cooked

When we were very little

my sister was fast enough to chase the chickens

and the big white goose,

which lived on the farm.

The chickens were fast

and the goose was slower.

Warned we were—

They could bite.

Bite? They had no teeth.

And so, chasing she went one day.

I followed, but she was faster.

I watched as the slow goose turned,

and started to chase her.

The bite might’ve bruised some

but the fear of an animal

standing as tall as you,

one you think you hold dominion over—

when it turns, honking and snapping—

the mistake realized

a few moments too late.

Next weekend we had fried chicken.

Strangely,

the goose was gone.

How to Not Walk the Camino

Time ticking down—

two days before we leave

and my feet still hurt.

Both feet.

I thought it a stone bruise,

I realized:

my feet have been hurting

so I can’t stand in line

for a decade.

This is not a passing injury.

Persistent, goal-oriented— 

traits that got me here, 

but at what cost?

Pairs of shoes purchased this month—

2 pair Oofos, Keens, Altras, Tevas, $150 each

One set shoe store orthotic inserts, $80

Two pairs custom orthotics, $275.

A foot brace and two night boot, no longer counting.

The second podiatrist

did shockwave therapy:

my arch was like a bowl of pain,

the entire edge hurt.

“Tendons just get worn out

like an old rubber band,” he said.

This year I have:

plane tickets,

bus tickets,

friends in Porto,

and sore feet.

No back-up plans,

and I've never been good

at giving up.

My husband says he’s not a pilgrim—

doesn’t need the miles

or the sacred cathedral end.

But I do.

I do.

Some lessons cost

and still hurt to learn.

Maybe I will finally learn

How to let go,

give up.

Maybe the real pilgrimage

is learning when

not to walk.