Every year it gets cold and I
fashion soft covers for frigid pale feet
fur inside, sewn entirely by hands,
every stitch a prayer for warmth.
This long work I undertake out of a care,
the vulnerable cold noses a chance I need,
to create this cocoon- this wasp’s nest
barricade up inside this person who’s mine, starting at the feet
keep them warm, feed them, pet them-
a larvae I want to grow, a baby lover, in my image
indebted to me.
Each time he wakes up, pulls on his socks
feels the itchy cotton chain stitch pulling apart at the sole
there will be realized, then, this immensity of care
this love in warmth.
My very own moveable feast,
I’m sick, selfish, my pleasure at the thought.
All these shoes I’ve made
an artifice of this tenuous bond
this thing I construct
to shore up our union.