I want Louboutin
heels with those trademark red soles,
I want them sexy, I want them high.
I want them slingback and peep-toed
so I can flash the purple polish
on my tootsies.
I want to wear them out of the store, just
you try and stop me.
I want to wow them on
Washington, saunter past C&O Trattoria
and Nick’s Liquor Mart, those bottles of Stoli
stacked in the window, calling my name, past the
summer-clad tourists in December, shivering,
barefoot, like LA has no winter.
In those shoes I’m hot,
stop-a-truck hot, prettiest
girl in school hot, and this
time, I know it.
Flaunt it. Hell, I own it. In those shoes I can
pick and choose, not settle for some loser.
Not drink away regrets, pound back Stoli at
Chez Jay’s, flash their scarlet bottoms when I kneel.
I’ll wear them like my own flesh,
like hooves, like sin.
I’ll keep their secrets, won’t spill
where they’ve been.
Better those shoes with their lurid soles
than you with yours.
—Previously published in Cultural Weekly (8 October 2014), in
Boyslut (April 2013), and in ppigpenn (24 October 2013) which
nominated it for a Pushcart Prize; reprinted here by author’s
permission
The stiletto boots in the back of my closet are
restless, long to stroll the 3rd Street Promenade,
looking for a red silk bustier. A Louis Vuitton bag.
A lover who won’t let me down.
The stiletto boots in the back of my closet
want to party, want to grab my feet,
climb my calves, hug my thighs. They’re
ready for action. Ready to put on a skintight
Versace. Ready to head for the club.
They want to clack on terrazzo floors,
totter from great heights, see the world.
Escape the flats, the Mary Jane’s, the penny
loafers, the two-toned, two-faced saddle Oxfords
that guard the closet door.
The stiletto boots in the back of my closet
want to walk all over you, punish you for
cheating, make you pay.
They long to wrap themselves around
you, put you in a headlock, rake your thighs—
want to lead you into
Debauchery.
Saran Wrap.
Whipped cream.
Wesson Oil.
Room service.
Remember?
The stiletto boots have a short attention span, choose
not to remember why they were banished, or what you
did. They’re desperate to reclaim you,
dig their heels into your shortcomings,
make little marks up and down your libido.
Welcome you home.
My stilettos can’t forget you.
My stilettos can’t move on.
My stilettos will forgive you.
Even if I cannot.
They bear the scuff marks
of your betrayal far better than do I.
Like the last time and the time before.
They want to get started, head out the door.
Who do you think gave me those fucking boots,
anyway?
—First published July 2013 in From The Four-Chambered Heart: In Tribute
to Anais Nin (Sybaritic Press); reprinted here by author’s
permission
is an L.A. based poet and photographer whose work has been nominated for two Pushcart
Prizes and a Best of the Net Award. She is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly,
and author of How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen and Other Heart Stab
Poems (Sybaritic Press, 2014).
Her works can or soon will be found in Rattle, Fjords Review, The MacGuffin, Deep
Water Literary Journal, BoySlut, Carnival Lit Magazine, Luciferous, HighCoupe, H_NGM_N,
Gutter Eloquence, GoodMen Project, Bare Hands, Poetry Super Highway, The Juice Bar,
and:
www.alexisrhonefancher.com/audioclips
alexis [at] lapoetrix [dot] com