When I was seventeen I spoke through
ironic fashion, kinderwhore mime,
smeared lashes, my aunt’s nylon sundress
and ripped fishnet tights stuffed in velvet
kitten heels. Threatened with a March dawn
those heels betrayed me. Stubborn clatter
on midnight stone, I waited too long
for him to run back to me, I turned
too late to grasp him in slow hushed heels.