Sometimes, when there is a lack of vocabulary,
gesture can be enough to communicate a message.

My tongue slides around the new words,
like my tough, leathery feet
inside my ill-fitting hand-me-down shoes.
They were given to me
because I had none.
I needed none.
Wanted none.
Requested none.
But,
if I were to fit in
I needed these shoes.

At home, I was barefoot.
We were all barefoot.
The same barefoot.
Young feet like fingertips
reading the organic Braille of the soil which spelt us out,
that conjugated our ancestors from past to past perfect.
Now the subjunctive precedes my descendants,
blowing their future across arid dust bowls of a foreign grammar.

They tell me that my new old shoes afford me dignity,
that my bare feet make me poor,
that my feet are inadequate,
though my shod feet are yet to make me richer
by any measure of the concept.
They tell me that my tent was inadequate
and they make me live in a house,
though this house is yet to keep me warm.
They tell me my gods are false
and they give me a cross to bear,
though this desert man is yet to save me.
They tell me I have a woman’s hair
and they give me hair befitting a gentleman,
though I am merely neutered and not potent,
anymore.
I am no more of a gentleman than the domesticated beast
that they tore the back off to make these shoes.

Now they tell me these shoes are scuffed,
that they make me look bad,
that I should value this unwanted gift.
They hand me the polish and the brush
but wish to hear nothing of how
this leather bites at my skin.

But though I have lost the feeling of my world beneath my feet,
I realise that I can, after all, find dignity in this unwanted gift.
There is a look of great surprise
when I polish these shoes to a mirror shine
on the backside of their fine trousers.