I summon courage to the bench
and zip a pair of summer shorts.
What is just below the hem
explains why I could wish for blind.
Bullet belts of barreled mirrors.
My stump a mugger wearing nylons
pressed around the ears of shame.
High-heeled dreams of Cinderella.
Palm trees in a parking lot.

Dressing for my wedding vows
would tear me up and spit me out.
As Mother put it on the table,
“You can’t wander down the aisle
in hiking boots or saddle shoes
or sneakers with their sloppy tongues
just hanging there below the lace.”
She didn’t get the compromise:
to wear a pair of fancy shoes
would throw me off the balance beam;
wooden legs and driftwood bones
would never have a graceful place.

We took a set of ugly flats and tied
them on like saddle bags.
I was certain, over-come
in sticky bubble-gum of thinking
everyone was looking down.
My dress would have to drag the floor,
even if I tripped and fell.
The coral reefs of crippledom
were cowboy boots with spurs attached.
Weathered toes like turtle heads
avoiding judgment’s alligators.
Hunchbacks in a corner hiding.
Praying when I climbed the stairs,
the camera-man would be at lunch.

by Janet I. Buck