On the high shelf, behind the tangle of holiday lights: a box.
Mom is packing up the kitchen and this feels sacred,
so I click shut the closet door and pull the old bulb’s chain.
The apartment smells like our assault of baking soda and Windex,
but shut in here, with my eyes closed, I can almost hug you again.
I dust off the box. I’m not surprised to find the shoes.
They are platinum silver as though soaked in mercury.
Even in the dark the laces shine. Men’s size eleven,
with a pronounced curve along the arch, leading up to a high
six inch platform heel; never worn, but really something.
I know you and Mom didn’t talk after you left for the city,
but I wonder if she knows you and I kept in touch.
Who will I talk to now about baseball, or boys?
She calls my name. I’ll have to tell her about the shoes.
–
Nathan Fako (he/they) is a former high school teacher. They are currently studying poetry at Bowling Green State University in Ohio. He lives with his partner and their dachshund, Poppy, who is the best listener. Their work is published or forthcoming in West Trade Review and others.