The days were drawing in
charcoal, spitting rings
around my eyes, burning toast
between my thighs. The thought
of food dissolved in my stomach
and I turned to midnight, hoping
to find you prostrate on my plate.

Under the table, I found your shoes
tapping tacit distress, a dance of death
that put to shame my ritual remorse.

I tried them on, these instruments
of tactile torture and, out
of the pandemic blue, a world emerged
wholesome; your intimate sphere
of influence under which I staggered
from neon to rainbow, to sway
in the rush of implausible dreams.

At dawn, I wrote the tongue-tied note
a one-line stand, as tribute
to exquisite feet that sacrificed
love's infant steps for one
whose strident grief ran riot
in pursuit of flesh and blood.

Before the choral sun could solmizate
the nascent day, morning had broken
into tears, your kiss of life
a cleansing evocation that uncoiled
my toes and sank my heels.

Beyond crepuscular, the pale of purity
prevails, and by the lightest of shadows
we pirouette in silhouette, playing
poetic parody that pushes polemics
to the conclusion that you will
never suffer the indignity
of being in my shoes.

12/25/2011

Posted on 12/25/2011
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom