May slithers in amid perspiration-glistened humans and pink lemonade to leave her brown mark on your skin.

“Imprint!” Like that left by that last politician’s scams on your country. “Imprint!” Like that left by years of fair female skin on film, on the choice of your country.


Little footprints run wild from beyond past there, to the present yonder. Time is linked by these footprints – their length and depth, their span, their number, their colour – whether rose tinted or black as gold.

Remember the imprint across your heart of those people in grade three who’d made you cry? Or that one, the one across your face, of that workplace that had told you to be a man, and take off your stilettos?

Remember that imprint, under which all we women lie – banished by temples, and mosques, for the way we look? Or that one under which half the world makes a tu’ppence, while ten people have their tea with dollars?

The heavy feet of time squelch aren’t needed to repress anymore – Their footprints do the work, and just as through.

May then, to these footprints – the good ones and the bad. To peeling them off, and to feeling their ridges against the parts that hurt you most.

– Madame Meow