My black strappy sandals with the two-inch heels--

             
             The ones I wore in Paris, clicking onto Rue d’Etoile
             In a light rain;

The ones I wore on 6th Avenue, when I linked arms with him
before he disappeared
down a dark flight of stairs
at the Iridium.

When I slipped them on, I was someone else.
When I walked in them, I was the snap
                                          of white tablecloth at a sidewalk café.

They have never seen inside a hospital.  Or the ICU

                where there are no windows
                and the light is always on—

                                              as if it were a gambling casino
                                              or interrogation room.

If my shoes were religious, they’d genuflect.

If they could talk, they’d say “save me.”

From The Quick and the Dead  (Grayson Books, 2010).
Used here with the author's permission.