Now Let’s Say

you are out in the suburbs
in your little gated rooms
and you’re not even
desperate. Let’s say
you’re not so young you
could leave whatever
seemed safe for a fling,
losing it all. Then the
red shoes mania gets to
you. Could be a love,
ballet, it could even be a
horse you fall wild for,
decide you want your
ashes scattered over her
grave. In your head maybe
you’re Moira Shearer,
flame red hair the
whitest skin, mystery skin.
Maybe the red shoes are
the color of what makes
you lie, something you
give up everything else for,
let what matters collide,
tear you to shreds. Are you
going to let this drug, this
hallucinogen slide through
your fingers, settle, be
earth or are you going to
put on those damn red shoes,
morph into a bird, some
thing other worldly as
the look in the dancer’s
eye when asked, “Do you
want to live?” answered,
“I want to dance.”