—That yellow heel that clumps on the
sidewalk, but not in that inexperienced way
when toes are lightly lifted and slender sole
crammed to cracks, but in that yes, I know
manner. Sally is a name for any children’s
story writer who forgot what a y means.
Sally is the name of the left leg striding
down the center lane, straddling yellow
lines in shoes that scream impractical and
fresh, somber and reclamation. Recurring
as swift as punctuation is the clack of
bipedalism, Sally’s knees creaking. No one
told her, when she stood, her heart would fight
gravity, would block and bleaken with each
upward stride, each horizontal beat. No one
told her pulses and women should walk on knees.—
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