If facing the paper, your thought is 'I am an artist', you have no clue what to do. If the concepts of your function are, 'I am a shape maker, an entertainer, an expressive symbol collector'...then you have an explicit road map. Edgar Whitney

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

My Wedding Shoes

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.