Shoemaker's Wife by Shannon Cuthbert

I sat by the fire countless nights,

stitching shoes as you slept

and dreaming of home...

Nights like this,

I stay up just to watch you sleep,

to watch the flecks of flame that

scatter on your skin.

You, a leather man,

with soft dreams you buried

under layers of stone,

until even I,

a child still with long hair and silk scarves

could not set you free.

For a while I couldn’t find you at all,

upturning chairs

and peering through glass to get to you,

your mind trapped deep,

a winged bird locked

somewhere behind your eyes.

Nothing to lose, I grew a new skin,

let my hands harden,

back knobbed as a birch.

I sat by the fire countless nights,

stitching shoes as you slept

and dreaming of home.

Silver-heeled shoes I’d never wear,

built for those free to leave life behind.

Slowly, we shifted into place,

morning bringing its own escape:

silver-heeled shoes,

the promise of elves,

each let you wake with a new kind of hope,

carried you back to me piece by piece.

Asleep, you glow now,

all see-through skin,

your stone face smoothed by shifting tides.

I touch my own, let its crags sing

of my travels,

of rivers and gorges unknown.

Shannon Cuthbert's poems have appeared in Red Booth Review, The Montucky Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Emerge Literary Journal, among others. Based in Brooklyn, she loves cats, folklore, and rainy days, and any situation that combines all three.

Check out her Medium poetry blog: https://medium.com/@shannoncuthbert

POEM Art by Amanda Bergloff