Writing again–we worship at the shrine,
that of language, which can be anything:
grieving, singing, imagining, embroidering
some other self, more feral, creaturely.
You’d see her looking back at you, slipping
on red shoes, walking to a coffeeshop,
kissing the wolf man. Why? Because, I answer,
that’s what Real Love wants. That’s why
she’s singing, full of benevolence.
Because we’re maudlin, full of terror,
lying, nuts, culpable, disfigured, still
vibrating, we’re oft dressed in tantalising
raiment–like the woman in black shoes
overbearing in presence, mechanical.
The poem then strips that away, smear the
Unreal–let the shrill, trite woman take
off her black shoes. The world smiles
beatific, and true. Because there’s still
the woman in the red shoes. Wolf man’s
nowhere to be seen. Oh oh she’s grieving.
Prompt: Write a poem in which footwear is featured. That’s Writers Digest Day 23 Prompt. I like it. Of course, I have a pair of red shoes. Of course, this is a made-up story. Of course poems are stories. Poems can be anything and so they are a mirror. Of course, I am a soon to be owner of a silver mirror inlaid with diamante and pearls. But whether you’re writing the poem or not, that’s a question mark.