I hate shoes and I’ve been wrapping heels in callous slippers since I was old enough to steady myself on moss creek stones with out my father’s balance beam thighs.

I walk double-yellow lines– I walk corn husks– I walk raspberry scabbed toes– sun-rot blue berry mash– I walk thicket and thin twig– snap- glass– cracked china dishes from Thanksgiving dinner when we all ate less than we wanted– I walk in the space between Tuesday and Sunday– I walk on paper cut wounds and the resilience of winter and how it never really loved spring enough to let it breath, it likes to strangle daffodils and hang my pinky-toes from nooses like martyrs  or people at the wrong  bus stop at the wrong time

— I walk windowsills and ant trails– I walk melted ice cream concrete– I walk chlorine– I walk on quotes from people I don’t remember and the final lines of novels that trail off into the far corners of the room like vapor– I walk between the rail road tracks and pretend that they’re a ladder– I walk on the shadows of trees I have attempted to climb.

And someday I will walk if only to thin my souls– sing my skin free and forget the slippers by the front door like a Japanese tea house. I won’t wear shoes for the glass shards of beer bottles broken out of forgetfulness and useless laughter. I won’t wear them to cover the dewy hairs on the tops of my feet or the toes that reject nail polish.

I walk souls and the frosted widow’s peaks of daffodils. I build my heels from the syrup of over ripe fruit burrowing their own graves.

I hate shoes and I walk callous slippers.