Will you remember me?

How my fabric held you, 

my child.

My strings enclosing you,

soundly, protectively.

Will you remember me

cradling your sole,

inviting your first steps 

on this graveled sidewalk?


Your mother’s hands 

pinched your palms, 

but I balanced you upright—

I nestled your weight, 

the wholeness of your gravity, 

and you pressed down, trusting. 


When did I lose you, my child? 

When did my laces loosen, 

release your heel

from my folds and

abandon you to Spring air—

How did I expose you, so soon?


I lie fetal now.

This sidewalk, my bassinet. 

My insole catches pebbles 

kicked from passersby,


and I remember you.

Your toenails, ingrowing,

tickling the underside of my canvas.