Stilettos

You’re going out dressed to the nines.
Perfect hair, precise mascara; fully accessorized.
Aloft atop a pair of shiny spike heels—
my dear, however do you do it,
glass is so fragile.

You catch a gleam in the corner
of a department store’s plate-glass front,
toes pointed akimbo in wanton display.
Go ahead. You know you want to.

The faux-alligator pair hides a grin
with far too many teeth.
The ones with red-glitter accents
sharpen their heels to drive into someone’s heart.
They plot to deform our toes,
twist our ankles,
wear our knees out,
bend our spines into broken shapes.

Your last pair, gathering dust under the bed
whispers to the glossy newcomers:
Welcome to a life of scuffing, stinking
being dragged through gutter muck.

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