Barbara Siegel Carlson

Beyond My Shoes

As we shed our skin,
forsythia fills the ravine.
When the train tracks vanished
I lost the whistle that set my heart
on its iron route. My travels unfurled
into spirals of skin
rubbed on the pillow, to those mites
who love us as their cream.
Because I can’t see them
I’m sweeping up crumbs.
My body will be left
to invisible teeth.
Webs sway in the corners
for I am my own cartographer.
The seeds in the sofa
will be sprouting soon.
Since my steps never reveal
the secret in my soles, I wait for the laces
to loosen on their own. Water spilled
on the sofa. I think it’s alive.
Because there is no script
your voice turns silent,
unwinding a tone that frightens me,
borrowed from what slips
down the velvet bud & beyond
my oldest shoes waiting
by the back door. The front door
is always locked. I forgot where
I hid the key. Because there are
so many webs my living room weaves
when a train passes through
& the spiders cry out.