Pedicure Please, Fuck the Rest

I remember crying
When I saw his feet
Calloused soles
Like he had been hiking
Not for hours or days
But a lifetime
Ever since his father died
When he was eleven or was it ten
Across the dusty brown landscape
Cacti, rocks, flash floods
The bright sun overhead
Blistering, bright, hot, dry heat
Searching for fulfillment I guess
Rebirth, renewal, acceptance, touch--
All out of reach
With the rock walls rising
Higher and higher
The boy, now a young man
Continued his descent
Through the mazelike canyon
Blocking out the pain and the sting--
Of the leather belt
The narrow canyon now opened
And a wide plain of red welts became shaded
By the cottonwood trees
Up ahead a crystal-clear stream
Babbling, flowing, cooling
Healing somewhat
Yet ambivalent--learning what it means to become a man
He gazes into the water
The familial anger behind his eyes
No longer his father's, but his eyes now.
His to give or to destroy
Time beats on
The transience of life with him, tucked away in his boots,
The pair he wears for hiking
He pauses at an Indian village
Making his home there with a woman he loves
Bearing children
Embracing love
The road is dusty at times
Barren, temporary, lonely
Years later this same man descends along the trail
Not looking yet spotting--
His eyes on her, falling
Why yes, a waterfall--flowing, cool, translucent.
Now the water is turquoise blue at the foot of the falls
He remembers himself as a kid kicking pebbles along the shore.
Those same feet--
His feet, calloused ones
Skin peeled back
Yellowed toenails and cracked blisters
The sandstone walls poking redder than before
Infected, scarred, disillusioned
Amidst my tears, I rub the lotion on his feet
Massaging them until he falls asleep--
Vulnerable, joyful, and content we both are
We have not killed each other yet.
Still exploring Havasu Canyon--hearts, souls, tender flesh
Home of the Havasupai tribe
He sees the horses that cannot be corralled--
Wanting to own but not wanting to become property himself
He is selfish, clingy, and hypocritical
Twenty-nine years left, unless tomorrow I am gone
I could be gone--a life defined by the hands of fate
A woman reared to not cross the line
What's the fucking use
Of this heat-induced hallucination?
I will never call this idyllic desert oasis home.
For now I buff his heels
Wanting that which isn't mine to have
Reservations Required:  pedicure please, fuck the rest.