I remember slipping my feet into mom's tan heels,
scuffing and tapping the girliness
into me through my feet,
in the old farmhouse
that spoke "this is country"
through the living land,
where the barn loomed its
raw holy magic,
more than a cathedral,
until it was torn apart
for its boards.
And the country, it was dismembered
for pavement and all the ludicrous mansions,
and the tan heels and girlhood were destroyed
by my growing up skeptical and never
loved enough.
J. Pratt-Walter
4/15/2013
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