Before they were ruby

Ode to My Shoes

(After Neruda, who left us his socks)

The poet alone

is writing an ode

to her shoes--

her shoes which

only she can fill,

her shoes of purple suede and green leather

the color of palm fronds,

her diamond-studded boots,

her feathered cowboy boots,

her seven-league epic poetry boots,

her little silver haiku boots,

with tiny heels that twinkle,

her first-person platform boots

and her backless glass slippers

modelled after Cinderella's

(one lost, at midnight,

because of a running man),

her huntress boots of India-rubber,

her lover's boots joined at the ankle

like leg irons,

her pink baby booties bronzed

for posterity,

her daughter's burning Reeboks,

her lover's laceless sneakers

left in the guest room closet

for her to kiss

year after year

after year.

Darling shoes,

beloved feet

ten toes to walk me

toward my true love,

fuck-me pumps to fuel his passion

stiletto heels to stab him

if he strays.

Shoes tell you everything.

Shoes speak my language.

Their tap tap tap on the airport runway

tells me the story

of a lovely, lonely woman flying after love--

That old, old story

in a new pair

of shoes. 

© Erica Mann Jong

(Photo of a collage made for me by a friend)

Did you know that the Ruby Reds are heading to London to be part of an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum?  They will click their heels and return to The Smithsonian on 21 November 2012 - let's hope they're not intercepted by any Flying Monkeys!