But for one pair of storebought boots,
your two feet grew up barefoot
with no idea you’d be bedridden,
expecting for the last time at forty
your seventh child. And your sixth—
your youngest daughter—my mother,
would play shoe shop with a string.
It’s her favorite story: how she laced
your feet with pretend ribbon,
pretend satin, pretend lace,
how she tied a bow and said,
How about this pair, Mama,
would these do? I can’t say
I was there, but the half of me
that was round and fully formed
nested in the mouth of her ovary,
waiting to be allowed down
its long swan throat, and at times
when I’m too sick to get out of bed,
I curl the edge of a haunted sheet
between my toes to feel
a pair of imaginary slippers
made by a little girl who waits
for me at the edge of my bed. This memory—
is it mine to have? My feet
are three sizes too big, paddle feet,
unpolished, feet that never bore
the weight of child and might never
will. But still, when my body fevers,
when I am weak, there is something
bittersweet threading the loneliest part
of me, something that says, Now,
it’s time. I’ve made you new shoes.
Stand up.
from Fanny SaysFind it in the library
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2015
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on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.