Beaded Baby Moccasins

If   love is like a doll’s shoe — the color of nascent snow that laces over the ankle or the polychromatic beaded baby moccasins we saw lying in the museum drawer that belonged to an infant from a sea tribe of seal hunters. Or the rutilant pink blossoms of the locust tree that bloomed in the dark while I slept dreaming of my arrival on a red-eye wearing a long to the floor skirt — not of a postulant, but of a flower vendor or a woman covering disfigurement. Freud believed that religious faith is a wish-fulfilling illusion. I can’t locate faith in a carved or uncarved pew. I’m more focused on the altar boy’s shoes. Under his white robe he’s wearing a man’s black loafers vastly oversized for his small feet with sufficient spare space for a coyote den in each toe. I want to buy him a kite. If   love is a mezzanine floor we will not fall from, a hand holding back my hair from my face as I’m sick on the side of the bus. The mouth so at home in the vicinity of pavement. Pew also means to enclose, as in men who were as willingly pewed in the parish church