My shoes are missing.
I looked on the bottom of my closet
and none are there. Not the boots
you loved me to wear, the ones that tied
up criss cross that always came undone,
not the simple black pumps I saved for work.
Did you take them? We can share, you know,
I’m fine with that, I loved the ones you wore
to the wedding, remember? Black patent
leather, simple bow. The red ones I never
liked. Ostentatious, Nana said.
People will see your shoes before they see
you, and what good is that?
I will leave the house now, my bare feet
poised for the cold or heat, my toes
digging in to the moist soil where I once
planted the pit from an avocado we had for lunch.
There was plenty of sun back there.
Something should have grown.