The cobbler couldn’t squeeze my foot
into the standard last size no matter
how much sweat beaded his forehead.
So he went back to the drawing board.
He made a new shoe last.
He cut a new pattern;
cumulonimbus for the upper,
plumes of pampas grass for the sole,
and a wedge of utopia for a heel.
The shoes reach for my feet.
First the broken left one,
the shoe strokes my scars with its dainty
leather straps calming the angry
swelling before buckling
with the sound of lips on lips.
The right shoe is more teasing,
pretends coyness before
it invites my foot to tango
giggling when I tickle the buckle.
My wedding shoes are wrapped
in delicate linen and boxed.
I stumble across them when
I put away the winter woolens,
open the box, nudge aside the fabric.
My shoes glow with a wake up
smile and hold out their hands to me.