From the Baby Shoe Lost at the Park
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.