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 father
succumbed in, wore in the Wild West of Manhattan.

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