While putting on her shoes she remembers
Father calling her from a far room to
Prepare for church, to wear her best, and to
Shine her shoes. She slips her foot into the
Shoes, placing a finger behind the heel
To lever in, the foot sinking down with
A tidy feel. I want to see my face
In the shoes, Father would call back then, and
She remembers spitting phlegm onto the
Black leather of her shoes and brushing with
The old yellow duster Mother used to
Polish the furniture. She pushes her
Other foot into the shoe, ********* it
In with ease, sensing the heel fit in snug.
She gazes at her black shoes, unpolished,
Unkempt. How Father would turn in his grave
To see them as such, she thinks, drawing a
Tongue licked finger along the toe of both
Shoes. I want to see my face in your shoes,
Father would bellow, his loud heavy tread
Entering the room twenty years before,
His hawk eyes scanning her dress, her hair, her
Shoes. And woe betide you, my girl, if they’re
Not shiny, Father said, towering tall
Over her, peering down overhead. She
Sits up staring at the door of her old
Room. No more shoe inspections; no more smacks
And smarts. Father’s silent now, Father’s dead.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
While putting on her shoes she remembers
Father calling her from a far room to
Prepare for church, to wear her best, and to
Shine her shoes. She slips her foot into the
Shoes, placing a finger behind the heel
To lever in, the foot sinking down with
A tidy feel. I want to see my face
In the shoes, Father would call back then, and
She remembers spitting phlegm onto the
Black leather of her shoes and brushing with
The old yellow duster Mother used to
Polish the furniture. She pushes her
Other foot into the shoe, ********* it
In with ease, sensing the heel fit in snug.
She gazes at her black shoes, unpolished,
Unkempt. How Father would turn in his grave
To see them as such, she thinks, drawing a
Tongue licked finger along the toe of both
Shoes. I want to see my face in your shoes,
Father would bellow, his loud heavy tread
Entering the room twenty years before,
His hawk eyes scanning her dress, her hair, her
Shoes. And woe betide you, my girl, if they’re
Not shiny, Father said, towering tall
Over her, peering down overhead. She
Sits up staring at the door of her old
Room. No more shoe inspections; no more smacks
And smarts. Father’s silent now, Father’s dead.
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