Mother kneels at her closet of dancing shoes
to see which ones I fit--sherbet green
taffeta and crimson crocodile, pumps
in Easter pink, plus a dozen black heels
with bows or aglisten with rhinestones,
all wicked run down. Likewise,
she's gnarled as a tree root, her spine's
warped her shorter than me, over whom
she once towered with red hair
brushed back into flame points.
Seeing her handle those scarred leather hides, I quote
the maenads' sad lament from The Bacchae.
After they've chased down
the fleeing god, fucked him dead, sucked
all flesh from his bones, dawn spills light
on their blood-sticky mouths,
and it's like every party you ever stayed
too late at. In chorus they sing and grieve:
"Will they come to me ever again,
the long, long dances?"
And Mother holding a black patent ankle strap
like a shackle on a spike heel
(it must have been teetering hell to wear) glances
sidewise from her cloudy hazel eyes and says "No,
praise God and menopause, they won't."
Mary Karr
from Viper Rum, 1998
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