The Red Shoes

I always knew who I would be. Not a fair maiden, goose girl, crone; no waitingfor some prince to come jogging in a white Spandex suit and kiss me awake.

In my bedroom mirror, I faced the wall and mapped out my world, examined my body
for quirks and bumps, pondered the ways to power. I learned to sit like a lady, stand tall,
walk evenly and swing dance gracefully in tilted, pinching faux leather red shoes. I painted my lips red, lowered my eyes to eyeshadow and mascara, then raised them to see
not a princess, but no old crow.
I’ve imagined myself a wedding dress, simple
and unique. I stood before my mirror and spun.
Sunlight came in through the drapes and sliced
my green bedroom floor. I had a plan. I was dressed in silk walking through a field of wildflowers and he came riding on his horse, milky white with eyes black and full as oceans. You, he said, draping his hand. We touched and then he galloped away. I woke in a cold sweat
because this time I had seen his face.

All that winter I tried to teach myself
to waltz and mend, tried on heels and corsets,
dresses with matching gloves. I walked barefoot
through our hardwood halls, my white cotton
gown clinging to my young body.

Once, I said lightly, it’s so bright in here, and drew the shades.

I spent my mornings this way. And in my bed late, my father snoring in the next room
I’d sit silent as I undid my necklaces and pulled off my rings. I’d stand and lean my body into the mirror ignoring the freckles on my nose. I traced my profile
and watched my heart-shaped face float in the mirror in the obscure candlelight. I’d breathe, remembering your touch.

That same year we saw bulls fighting.
I retched on the car ride home, but you did not.I tried to learn how and when and why. I tried to take in everything. No good.

Through taupe, beige, shabby brown, mud-black bruises, rags – I glowed, inhuman, pale and sweet as apple flesh. I stood it as long as I could. I could wait no more and
I danced that night, alive, in new, pinching, painful red shoes.