One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

One, two, buckle my shoe.

The leather bursts a blister through.

A little tighter. Hide the red.

Walk where softer things have bled.

~

Three, four, behind the door.

Heels keep clear off bedroom floor.

One scrapes plaster, sheds its black.

The buckle bites. The bed bites back.

~

Five, six, the buckle clicks.

Kneel. The carpet leaves its pricks.

The soles face up. The toes curl tight.

The leather keeps its teeth tonight.

~

Kneel again beside the stair.

Bleach the print that dried out there.

The same toe folds. The same seams strain.

Salt stiffens what the rinse leaves plain.

~

Seven, eight, stand up straight.

Let swollen feet negotiate

the polished stage, the closing train.

Press flesh into shape again.

~

Nine, ten, home again.

Peel the stocking from the skin.

Leave the shoes beside the bed,

their little mouths still lined with red.

~

Let the wife undo the right.

Hold the left a moment tight.

Then let that buckle loosen too.

~

For once, let nothing

fill the shoe.

.