She called her yellow stilettos
lemonade chapstick.
They coated her toes in vinyl
and cupped her ankles
in a soft cushion of rinds.
She said they remind her
of breakfast on Saturday mornings.
She had been a little girl
in a kitchen of custard yellow,
and her mother had hung curtains
with lemons which squeezed out sun
every weekend morning.
The air was always sweet
with French toast, kitchen cleanser,
and toasted rice childhood.
Her mother spoon fed
her laughter between the oldies,
crackling hiss, and the neighborhood
children screams in the street.
Happiness was as simple as rabbit ear
knots in shoes, and skinned knees.
She still had skinned knees
from stumbling down stairs
from stiletto unbalance,
but they glowed like the sun,
and she felt her mother’s warm embrace
in the small of her back.
She felt like she was home.
Poetic Trials 