Rae Gouirand
Shoes
In the window
the recent dictates its speech
angled on a
beaming ramp of plexiglass:
so difficult to go in,
remove your old favorites,
align them under
your chair, hoping no one
will notice the darkened
scuffs, the flattened arches,
the sides wet
with snow. Here the clerk comes
with the box,
breaking its tissued seal,
and you hope
your long toes will slip
like sweet muscari
into the sculpted tips,
cooled by the clean
insides, lulled into a perfect
blue fit. And they do,
nearly. So nearly they are
more perfect for it,
fragrant from newness,
neatening your
plans. Under their faces,
thin bones stir,
refracting radiance.
At first, wearing these
is something like a refusal.
With the first step outside
their smooth bottoms chew and exclaim —
not for the world —
touching it reluctantly.
Perhaps it begins
to rain a little, and they turn cold.
Or you kick the door
on your way in and leave a bruise.
Or sigh while taking them
off, blistered cloud from those hard seams
articulating its rise,
rosy, and sad, noting its source.