Daddy's Shoes

Fiction by | April 17, 2011

shoesDaddy had to be buried without his shoes. I’ve always wondered how he would have felt about it if he knew. He was tall. About five feet eleven, maybe. I’ve always thought he was big too.

He wore his black cotton socks, they said, but his shoes just couldn’t fit in anymore. In fact they said that if we wanted they could put his shoes in but it would have to be laid on top of his legs. I took them home instead, those shoes.

They were relatively new. Soft black leather with smooth soles, you could tell they were not used very often. Daddy referred to them as his “dress shoes.”

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a new york poem

Poetry by | September 30, 2007

ten minutes before mass
you slip through the church doors
wrapped with time

you watch the sermon drone on
lifting its message
heavy with guilt
towards the blue
eggshell-painted arches
pillars pointing long white fingers
like stems, elongating
the shadows behind you

you bow your head
and close your eyes
in a brief murmur of amens
golden censers and fragrant incense
chasten your secret sins
dissolving the end of words
as your fingers trace the cross
laid bare on your withered chest

forty minutes later
you step over autumn’s dry leaves
feeling less brittle and
lighter for now.