By Fran Davis
in emerald silk about size five
preserved for their charm
(sinuous straps with a platform sole).
A tiny woman spinning
into some long gone night,
such special shoes, vanity afoot.
My mother’s, small woman of
modest desires—but the shoes
tell a different story—
party girl, lover of the dance,
the quick step and twirl, a hot hand
at the waist, slippery nylons
and a garter belt, fox-trotting and
jitterbugging, dance hall men, the night
as long as it needed to be.
Those high-stepping shoes
saved through move after move,
growing children and dawning
troubles, tucked into a trunk until
the errant daughter left them out,
so careless. The long, sweet story
of the steps they made eaten by the dog.
Frances Davis has written a column for Coastal View News for 25 years. Her work has appeared in the L.A. Times, Passager, Calyx, The Chattahoochee Review, Askew, The Hopper from Green Writers Press, and several Gunpowder Press anthologies. She is a winner of the Lamar York prize for nonfiction and also a Pushcart Prize nominee. Also by this poet: "Missing You"