Tuesday, April 18, 2017
A Shoe History
Shoehorned into a bed where the wolf settled,
sat silent on the sheet and waged water
at my lids, a lone sub in a ocean, the walls
groping like a gnarled rabbi, a dead garden
where a fierce teen and a bottle were hunched over
in a corner and I too frightened to whisper, floating
steadily into my title, my fable, the blazed cradle
where mother swathed me in candles and efficient love.
Raw were the live bogeys, the pale kohen
who delivered himself holy from door to door
when doors were open to hucksters, to wolves, I spun
dizzily, a draydl, encrypted with four letters,
each a suffusion of the brown wingtips my fathersuccumbed in, wore in the Wild West of Manhattan.