Italian Shoes
I wore only new shoes that summer.
He asked to walk with me. My heels sank into mud.
We took the woodsy path to the cliffside bar where
the older teenagers kissed. The gossips told my mother this.
I didn't catch his name. I hardly looked at his face.
He was traveling up and down the boot to festivals of the saints.
A pellegrino. In my mother's childhood, they walked barefoot for their penance, prayed
at the church. He wore grown men's shoes and zippered pants.
He walked up and down my new breasts. I can't tell you what happened.
He held me against a scalloped wall. I watched the swing carousel over his left shoulder,
children screamed. The loud speaker played a pop song with my name in it.
I writhed around like women do in movies. I told him he didn't stick it in.
He said he wasn't joking around. I walked myself home.
The mud on my wooden soles dried overnight. I kept the lacey pumps
in my American bedroom closet for years,
picked at the caked dirt until there was none.
Then threw them away.
About the Author
Daniela Buccilli’s poetry has been published in The Pedestal, Prime Number, Quarter After Five, Paterson Literary Review, Cimarron Review. Her chapbook is "What it Takes to Carry" and her co-edited anthology is "Show Us Your Papers" (both from Main Street Rag). She is the poetry editor at Northern Appalachia Review.