Thin music crisps like leaves
along the walk, rasps
like the final cricket. I begin to dance
holding the red satin shoes
that don’t fit any more.
Folk and fairy tales warned, they all
warned, and he said
his love couldn’t wait.
My dancing could. I tissued
the red shoes away while April’s lilt
crescendoed.
Rescued by their concerns to quiet
pleasures, I burned
to leap like flame. I walked
sensibly in sensible shoes,
restraining my ache
to leap the ribboned distance.
What shoes he wore he shifted
as moods shifted, moving him
to paths forbidden me.
Beyond October’s ragged sounds
I hear December’s void.
Cradling my red shoes, I begin to dance
stiff but ecstatic, dance
to the scraped and tuneless
music of October before
silence whitens in.
