because my 1940’s Lucite fit like Cinderella’s glass slipper
because my hard-to-find-size becomes a mission
because my P.F. Flyers made me the fastest walker in second grade
because my Beverly Feldman’s rhinestones shimmer like my mother’s sunglasses hiding her flirtatious eyes
because her boyfriend Harry, the shoe salesman, left boxes for me tokens of his affection for her on the front porch because of the variety and textures of black No two starless nights dark and lonely as they are ever the same
because the cherry elastic belt was cinched over leotard my spit-shined patents tapping
because my father gritted his teeth as I pinched my brother in the back of the blue Studebaker
while we drove the Uncle Jack’s in Queens where (like it or not) we got brown penny loafers;
because Dorothy clicked her heels three times the only way home
because in Mr. B’s musty basement size 4’s lined the walls like rowboats $2 a pair, everything mine-- silver Mary Jane’s, pink Keds, olive elf slippers;
because of the necessity of boots: ankle, knee, thigh-high-- buckled Victorian, shit-kicking cowboy, fringed hippie, Harley Davidson slash of zippers, 70’s platforms from Paris, Whiskey-A-Go-Go-whites;
because I still dream about those gold sequined sneakers stolen from my luggage on the layover between O’Hare and Osaka, murder in my heart
because when I was twelve and things quietly erupted blemished chin, curved hips, my parents’ marriage
I could wrap the ribbon of my San Sebastian espadrilles around my bare, tan legs in summer that summer, like a gift.