Jul '02 [Home]
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Jul '02 [Home] |
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Poetry Feature Shoes (Socks Optional) Editors' Preface Selling Shoes Miles Coon Ursule Molinaro's Shoes Barbara Foster Pastime Stan Friedman A Plea to the Vogue Model Martin Galvin Blacksmith Maureen Holm Nothing Dates an Outfit Like . . . Vicki Hudspith You Must Accept Kate Light Not enough for me Rochelle Mass shoes & the loofah like fellas they rein in Jim McCurry Obligations Toward My Shoes Richard Pearse Ode to Toe Socks Stephanie Scarborough Grandpa's Affair, 1936 Lori Williams Compagnia della Calza (Confraternity of the Sock) Terri Witek In My Rhinestone Model Tee's Ginny Wray Bankrupt Farms Virginia's Shoes Rob Wright Contributor Notes ~ . ~ . ~ Selling Shoes Miles Coon Irving sits alone in the early morning light of a single bulb, surrounded by inventory. The white boxes stacked in a mausoleum, the slow moving soles marked with an "X". The smell of shoe leather and cigarettes mingles with coffee, gathers in the rows he skims with yellow fingertips. His notes of ins and outs become an order that he writes unsteadily with his Paper Mate®. Then he dusts the fitting stools and the samples on the shelves that bake beneath recessed lights. Another day of knots and tangles that slow the tie and untie dance, the push of feet. The taking of the cash, the shirt-sleeve smiles, the bows followed by the gentle tap to walk around. Rent to pay, a big chain coming in nearby, casual days that rob him of dressy sales. He studied Yeats before his father died. ~ . ~ Ursule Molinaro's Shoes Barbara Foster Quite a vamp In her blonde heyday Perched atop stilettos Pointed as the rapier Thrust of her wit Pity any fool inspired to Express an opinion Or worse, to disagree She sliced them up To nibble like caviar Now I wear her pumps A loaded gift In the fifties, the niftiest at Saks Will I follow in her footsteps? Wear black nail polish? Steal lovers from the cradle? Hate my mother? Should I hurl her shoes into the trash? Or, instead, fondle them And hope her creativity Not the polish, rubs off? At least they're not red. ~ . ~ Pastime Stan Friedman I have spent the day untying the running shoes of the women of Montreal. It is easy. Their steps are slow, predictable as a downbeat, and generously unguarded. They employ the footwork of the bilingual the patient two-step of a people who say everything twice, ascending like an accent aigu, falling like the crosshatch of a Q. But mostly, it is about the knot. New Yorkers wear their Reeboks to work in the morning with the knots tight paradigms of their lives, a surrogate strangle of their husbands' necks, the unsolvable tangle of so many suffocating nights. But the women of Montreal are loose with their strings, even double-knots give up their bows like a muffler freed from its rusted mount, dragging through the Avenue du Parc, throwing sparks at my open palms, lighting their paths without them even knowing. ~ . ~ A Plea to the Vogue Model Martin Galvin To let the rude bones show, and showing, sharp The easy flow of form that dulls the eye Lulled by its soft falls. Let the ears protrude Like whelks from a head smooth as damp sand. Let shoulder blades like torn wings break The steep descent of back, let the elbows In crazy triangles dance like clumsy Marionettes, pulled by finger fling. The bald knees show they know a thing or two About what's comely rude. And splayed feet In shoes that cannot afford socks with bones Beyond the fingering, feet like birds, bones That never can be mended once they break, Break paths no architect for all his flow Could follow, but small boys could, and mad Old women bent to shape, and sometimes, Sometimes, when you forget and be glad Of the girl that's awkward in you, you. (Prior publ.: Descant) ~ . ~ Blacksmith Maureen Holm The young one drove the nail so deep he lamed me for a summer. The old one knelt to trim, knew quick from cuticle, chip from bone, roughshod from hobbled. The girl held the pail, spilled tears on withers, longing on curry comb. ~ . ~ Nothing Dates An Outfit Like . . . Vicki Hudspith I love shoes They always fit no matter how much weight you gain They are the one item of clothing You can see while they are worn My brown suede Joan and David cowboy boots with low heels Make me Annie Oakley with an attitude But they are sensitive to rain And too wide at the top for jeans to squeeze over Ah, the yellow Italian loafers! I was accused Of looking preppie but someone else said they proved I was a spirited soul when I wore them on A drizzly gray day The navy and white Bruno Magli polka dot heels.… We waited for hours in Florence for the shop to open No one else was ever as amazed by them As I was In the wicked witch black chunky heeled pumps I am a porno star Hiding in "The Nun's Story" When I wear them with a long black dress Earthy brown leather sandals with thick rubber soles From Jenny B in SoHo are very politically correct Soft black suede Italian loafers look so good I bought a pair and a spare for when they wear out Tucked away in a felt bag — Joan and David Couture velvet renaissance pumps. The clerk was so delighted When I bought them. It felt like signing adoption papers When I signed the credit card slip The woven leather sandals my daughter picked out In a London department store Are so respectable they shout "MOM!" But are perfect in late Spring, early summer The incredible black Arche boots were too big Until after my feet grew with the second child Now they are very "Downtown" And fit like slippers The ankle high "No Name" pull on boots With giant two inch crepe soles Make tight jeans look sleek I tower the earth when I roam in those Draped sadly over the shoe rack in my closet are the conchos For my now departed purple Tony Lama cowboy boots Bought on Christopher Street in the 70's Later I dyed them black and the dye rubbed off on everything There are several pairs of Susan Bennis sandals Purchased at 75% off (Their motto: "The most extravagant shoes in the world") Some fit, some don't. So much for sales I thought I had accidentally sent one to Bosnia As part of a charity drive I was broken-hearted and couldn't Bring myself to throw the other one away. For months I opened the closet and looked longingly At the bereft favorite shoe. That summer my friend said "Bring your beige sandal. I took the other one to Jimmy's. Remember?" I had begged her to take it in as I boarded a plane back to Europe I was married in a pair of petal soft Gray suede sling back pumps with floppy bows I'd never throw them away but I'll never wear them again They rest in the deepest reaches of a storage cupboard My new Nike Air's are the coolest I saw a boy at my kid's school check out My feet and follow up my legs. A look of shock Registered as he realized a parent had them on. I was thrilled My favorites are lace-up suede boots with soft rubber soles I have four pair, two in black and two in brown So call me Imelda, I don't care They're waterproof, springy and fit over leggings or under jeans "Nothing will date an outfit like shoes," A fashion model told me I was standing outside La Tante Claire London's luxurious French restaurant My hostess was wearing the latest retro Chunky-heeled platforms by Donna Karan While I had on my 75% off-black suede tiny heeled pumps They had been good for years And so I recall a movie that ended with a blind man Sitting against a building advising another man Who was down on his luck "You can watch the world go by Just by listening to people walk," he said. Does the right or left heel strike the pavement hardest Do they drag their feet, or shuffle… He could know a lot about them I'm wearing old floppy Minnetonka moccasins It's winter And I'm about to go out Time to go to the closet and choose ~ . ~ You Must Accept Kate Light You must accept that's who he really is. You must accept that you cannot be his unless he can be yours. No compromise. He is a canvas on which paint never dries; a clay that never sets; he's steel that bends in a breeze; he's a melody that when it ends no one can whistle; he is not who you thought. He's not. He is a shoe that walks away: "I will not go where you want to go." "Why, then, are you a shoe?" "I'm not. I have the sole of a lover but don't know what love is." "Discover it, then." "Will I have to go where you go?" "Sometimes." "Be patient with you?" "Yes." "Then, no." You have to hear what he is telling you and see what he is; how it is killing you. ~ . ~ Not enough for me Rochelle Mass One cupboard is piled high with shoes in boxes in pairs, packed one on one toe to heel, and heel to toe. Too many shoes for one life one woman. Low heels in soft suede. High heels in fancy leather mostly black and a mustard pump that meets the heat of august. Too many shoes for one woman one life. Red runners high-topped with laces and multiiped air-soled nikes. Brown loafers open for a penny blue keds for swimming and high boots for winter rains. Too many for one woman. Each month the arch in my narrow foot begs for a new style to slip into. I, like a narcotic, satisfied and puffing dream of places waiting for my foot. Each month the arch in my foot begs for a new style to slide into. Too many for one life one woman, not enough for me. ~ . ~ shoes & the loofah like fellas they rein in Jim McCurry Club rules: Smile. Don't squeal. Know not to ask. Sit there silent, unfalsetto. Trim pigsfeet with the pale aplomb yr feathered moll adores. The furze is white, the scissors Elan, she calls us Mister and Sir. Overdue each mantic, unromantic momentito—when does the next shoe fall? * It's not about shoes, but let's say it is. Nor is it about the Russian River pinot noir, but then again, ditto. At the next table, a man speaks to a woman of asking the question. He says, "Am I supposed to be in spiritual mode toward this other woman I want to date—or sensual?" She says, "I don't know. Do what you have to do." I don't know what to focus the attention upon, even in prayerful meditation. I focus on his wingtips, her heels. I imagine them trading shoes— perhaps because she has leached all the tone from her bleached blonde voice, while his voice is inflected, ersatz, 'puppy dog' soulful. But perhaps that is not the explanation. I crawl over and raise my two hands like paws, and pant in and out, and say: "Try putting on each other's shoes." * Having craved a certain pair of dark suede wingtips from Italy—what to my amaze did greet my pied eye yesterday but a 62% off offer on same? Needless to say, I popped my anti-paranoia pill with an anti-synchronicity chaser & fired off the check in the mail. * I am coming out now, for I am not homosexual, yet there are times (interludes, five minute retreats) when I adore the closet. I think it is a hangup on the smell of fresh skinned & tanned hides, when the leather is hardly broken in— when sweat & stinky flesh have not yet corrupted them virgins. ~ . ~ Obligations Toward My Shoes Richard Pearse Without complaining my shoes have assumed my exact weight. Without complaining. I grew fat and pressed them harder. They never squeaked. I stomped them over dogshit. They took the stink, not me; over roses, they took the guilt. Now they're exhausted. They lie on their cracked sides under the bed. Slowly they grow. Whatever they brush against turns into night: first the bed, then the cabin, then the sky. Finally they relent, allow a chilly dawn. It's time. I get up and climb the back hill (for once I'm carrying them.) I soak them with gasoline. I abide by their last requirement: I step into them and light the match. This is better: my smoke isn't weighing down theirs. In the middle of the sky, the calves that died to make them are lifting their heads. In welcome? In mooed derision? What? (Prior publ.: The Helen Review) ~ . ~ Ode to Toe Socks Stephanie Scarborough Each housed inside its own acrylic sphere Of itchy, snuggly, polka-dotted sock My toes feel isolated as I walk And numb. Quite numb. Extremely numb, I fear, And with each step it grows much more severe. Perhaps because they shrank up to the shock Of Mr. Store Clerk who proclaimed, "We're out of stock And won't get any more until next year." I can't wear my blue stiletto heels Unless I want some amputated toes, And even in my Birkenstocks it feels As though I'm wearing concrete. I suppose I'll throw them in the attic for a while And wait a decade 'til they're back in style. ~ . ~ Grandpa's Affair, 1936 Lori Williams Vincenzina's red patent leather shoes cost a week of suppers; each dig into his flesh a chicken leg, a peach or cup of milk. The Wife Knuckles knocked on doors, quietly. A sister's nickel here and there to swallow something that tore throat and unnamed places, worse than any gristle, or pit from rotten fruit. The Affair They went to picture shows, she with her red shoes, proud to see the latest, clutching him as if he were the new Sicilian star; a pepper-nosed, garlic-breathed Clark Gable. America, he thought, land of opportunity! A blonde and blow for the price of a ticket, for the price of a pair of shoes. The Marriage She followed him to the theater, her soles singing arias to the pavement. She watched him kiss her painted lips, hold her skinny elbow, lead her to the dark. Stopped to buy rock candy for the kids, a penny she would spare. A penny she would owe. Tucked the crystals into her apron, sweetness for them all, hummed along with cardboard, home. Forty Years Later At the end, he whispered, Maria, on your tombstone there should be diamonds and rubies. You have been a good wife. She thought of the shoes, ruby red— never told him she knew. Good wives stay silent and pale, waiting for moments like this. ~ . ~ Compagnia della Calza (Confraternity of the Sock) Terri Witek My Well-Furbished Sir: That your pedal extremities have been dressed not in chukkas, brogans, boots or waders but only in peppermintiped extravaganzas reaching halfway to your crotch suggests you expect the evening's foray to be dry and long (your calves already trumpet dawn) and that no browsing herd precedes you, no peak frets past its ledge, the way rolls on without straying into what's beside it your best stick routs each urgent vine or dog and at each milestone you still less suspect that half your brethren are already lost. ~ . ~ In My Rhinestone Model Tee's Ginny Wray I've finally found the shoes of my desire in a mail-order catalogue on page 16. Called Model Tees, they have short squat heels made for dancing, pointy pointed toes, and a skinny tap. They come in black patent leather and red, just imagine! ($64.95) and for five dollars extra there's a rhinestone clasp. But they're too pretty for me and I know I'll never buy them. I'm too old, too tall— I can hear my mother laughing. And yet, if I had the guts to wear them I'd create a big scandal dancing the Flamenco with a slim Latin lover (too short, but who cares?) and his pants would be so tight they'd start a riot in the ballroom and we'd all go up in flames like crackling paper dolls. Sadly having no lover, couldn't I still wear them with my old blue jeans and my lumberjack jacket to buy a quart of milk and a box of Cheerios? I can see myself now looking cheap as dimestore roses with the rhinestones at my ankles driving to the deli in my brand new Model Tee's. ~ . ~ Bankrupt Farms Rob Wright I was given the old boots for nothing, black and slick as a seal's muzzle; the cracked rubber leaked in slush, as I tramped the bushed-out flats and bogs, navigating with the balls of my feet and chance, following the ruts and tracks between rusted wire, ruts filled with oil seep and bald tires. Nothing left of the farm's stock but bones. A ball joint exposed, polished by the muzzles of skeletal dogs who patrolled the flat field's borders, whose tracks I saw in slush running in pairs. Their yellow marks in slush still steaming in the ruts. I found one shot, and lying flat — a new mother, nipples extended, nothing left of her head but the muzzle's grinning jaw, and socket that held the ball of her yellow eye. No ball- fetcher this one, whose grave in slush no child marked, or stroked her muzzle in remembrance. Her pups left in a rut for crows, marauding males, and the nothing of hunger, the long echoes, the flat silence. At the road's end, a flat- roofed farmhouse, buckled, like a puffball squashed by a giant's daughter. Nothing left but withered pansies, the muzzle of an iron stove, fly-specked oil cloth, slush, and a jar of fossils, gathered from ruts. I'd often picked prints of ferns from ruts when the spring rain washed the flat fields to furrows and lakes of pooling slush. In a bedroom, I found a pink ball gown and sash set on a rifle muzzle like a mannequin. Of the woman, nothing but the smell of still-birth, hard in the muzzle, a ball of failure on a flat trajectory; flesh becoming slush. Nothing but bones washed in spring rains from ruts. ~ . Virginia's Shoes Rob Wright I remember hearing from a teacher that Virginia Woolf took off her shoes and pointed them, neatly before walking into the river. The teacher was amused by that thinking it an act of vanity like writing script in copperplate or dotting i's with circles. Maybe he was only covering the icy horror of the act with condescension. At the time I thought it stuffy, English, old-maidenly. This morning I awoke imagining my feet in silt, the way it cools as the toes sink in. The mud whirling in eddies, mixing around the bone-white shins. The prickle of new growth. She/I must have shaved them— last week? She/I thinking that if we had known we might have troubled with a razor. Then turning for an instant to notice the shoes left haphazardly on the grassy bank, and pausing to tidy. Pattering mud into the lime-green lining. But knowing not to hesitate over-long. Loading her/my pockets with stones as wool gathered water-weight warm with piss now. And noticing that the skirt was sinking not spreading— as in the Shakespearean convention— but wicking water to the waist making it difficult, but not impossible, to walk. ~ . ~ . ~ |