Sometimes shoes make me sad—
mesh slip-ons tacked with sequin petals.
Not, oh don’t mistake me, for
those who made them:
cutting, stitching, gluing.
Although I think of the
women—head down, intent,
as my daughter, from Hunan,
bends to try a pair in royal blue.
Not for the women hobbled for
cruel beauty’s sake, their toes made to
curl in toward the arch, the smell
worse than the fish stink of Mott Street.
No, it’s for myself, cut off, like a
stepsister, from the ease
of slapping across the shadows on the sidewalk,
feeling the plastic sole slip and hit, slip and
hit. These fancies are
not for the likes of me
limping along Worth Street: Step, tilt, step, tilt
step. But I have worn
white leather mules from Florence,
green suede ankle boots,
magenta leather pumps,
shoes in no way
sensible. Oh mei mei, let’s
you and me
run the length of Canal,
from the East River to the Hudson, past
Pell, Mulberry, and Division,
as fast as our poor feet can carry us.