the old woman who lived in the shoe

licorice veins unpeeled from ankles,
i knelt to take my chuck taylors off. 
some body parts are re-usable-- make shift even. 
my shoe laces are too long so i have to
wrap them twice before knotting them &
each time i do i hear my first grade teacher
scolding me again for just tying them in
too many knots. we'd hate to come undone.
i don't know the little rhyme anymore
about bunny ears. shoot the rabbit &
hang the pelt from the closet door--
laces-- thick as boas-- their girth 
crawling on the bedroom walls.
the old woman who lived in a shoe,
the one from the nursery rhymes-- she knocks
at my door again. i tell her she should bother
my father considering he has much bigger feet
than me. a little girl again i plant both
soles in one of his black converse-- the laces
growing teeth to dig into my calves. 
i cover my mouth so as to not wake
anyone up-- there's always someone sleeping.
the old woman is followed by all her children--
as we know, she had so many that she didn't know
what to do & i surely didn't know what to do either.
if i'd opened the door they'd have rushed in--
no stopping them. they need a place to stay for
the night. the canvas tongues admonish me
for not being more generous. acid holes in
my father's white socks are where i escaped
from. he sits on a rocking chair suspended 
just above the ceiling. he wears the same shoes
he did to all family occasions-- the versatile
black chuck taylors. i tell him that the day is
over & both of us can take off our shoes--
he stares forward-- rubbing his hands across 
his sore feet. i catch his ankles when they fall
off & hand them back up to him. the last few months
i think my feet have been growing-- the shoes
rejecting them-- slinking back into the closet.
i assume they wanted me to let the old woman in.
one of these days, maybe. i just don't have
enough room. there's just not enough room.