Look at those spidery spike heels-black suede,
lots of straps-whatever possessed you?
And where is the dress you could wear
with such shoes?
Never mind now. It's time
to do your chores. Put on your rubber boots.
Go weed the garden, muck out the stable,
divide the rooty clump of lilies, chase billy goat
back home, start thinking
But who is that woman standing
at your kitchen sink? She's wearing nothing
but your new shoes and her own version
of your skin. See that mole
on her left hip-
like a spider bite: the dark
desire to slip on a gilded string bikini
beneath the flannel nightie. Don't
just stand there staring. Notice
how she wears her hair. Isn't that the way
you've thought of fixing yours?
how evening's glamour
casts its blush around her
pale reflection in the window
as she fades: a sprinkling of freckles
into the darkening shoulders
of a day left out in the sun
too long. Now she's gone,
and one stiletto sandal
stands upright in the middle of the floor.
The other lies on its side as if begging
to be finished off.
Better snatch them up now
while you can, before night
comes twirling down the mountain
in her own smoky dress. She could be looking
for just such a pair of dangerous shoes.