A Small, Bounded Space
she was right, and I pray I’ve learned the lesson
money comes and money goes
couldn’t tell you what the bill was, or where the money went,
but I think about those brown leather pumps once a month.
right makes light of when to know and when to question
refunds come and refunds go
i promise you it was life or death, I know that refund meant
she was right, and I pray I’ve learned the lesson.
most details have hazed, but the cashiers look lingers on,
stronger than the specifics of the shoes themselves:
I can tell you how the heel felt, still know the brown soul’s arc
money comes and money goes
and what do I have to show for it? my own
two feet, and once a week they ache
from a small bounded space, our selves forgone and on account,
I can’t tell you what the bill was. or where the money went.
there have been so many other brown shoes since
whole shelves of them aging in a home without lapses,
without promises of life or death. I know she was right
and I think about those brown leather pumps once a month
we were the last Americans
after Ruth Ellen Kotcher and Josh Bails
we were pizza fiends devouring paperbacks with rumbling tummies.
red plastic cups quaking with the caffeinated vibrations of nine year olds.
oil stains sealing darkly the grooves of our fingerprints.
we were newly minted global citizens clam-slamming Razrs at the edge of time.
twenty-five dollar full sets ordering and reordering the universe, gleaming.
filed and coding darkly the grooves of our individual footprints.
we were the last Americans, hunting down payphones and archiving the dead.
red buttons scraping ourselves from our cells with artificial precision.
closed loops cooling darkly the groves of our perspiration.
Jeni De La O is a poet and storyteller living in Detroit. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Columbia Review, Obsidian Review, Tupelo Press, and other places here and now gone. She is Assistant Director of Kresge Arts in Detroit and is currently type-setting a collection of palimpsests, for fun.
