For Jenn Martelli
I wish you could see these new Docs—
buttery tan nubuck harness boots—
Cute! you’d proclaim them, burnished on top
of the steel toe. I tried to buy the Wild
Botanicas you yearned for in your poem
of the same name, got scammed on a pair
at the foolish price of £46. I still grieve
the boots never meant to arrive, their night shades
and spider webs. I have the classic black,
and the pale pastel paisley suede I wore
on our date to the Lammys, burst of color with my black
pants and top. You in black sleeveless dress,
black Doc sandals, it being June.
I have those, too, but they hurt my bunions,
make my feet sweat. Plus, they’re too femme,
comeuppance for my ignorant younger self
who pooh-poohed the idea of gender
dysphoric footwear. Late bloomer, me.
The Wild Botanicas are vintage. Every real
pair online—none, thankfully, my size—
sell for hundreds. Still some friends bought
you a pair the week before you died,
size nine, maybe your daughter now wears.
I’ve not given up completely except maybe
laces for a while. These I slip on
with their welts and stitches, like a wound.
