
Shoeless by Cynthia Le Monds
I am shoeless—
all summer long,
till the planter will pay Momma
enough wages to buy shoes
for all of us—for school.
I have nightmares
of the first day of school—
stepping onto the bus
without shoes,
kids eyeing me as if I am—
heartless,
homeless,
shameless.
But I am just shoeless,
none of those other things.
In town, kids toss their shoes
onto powerlines.
Momma says, They’re dope dealers.
My older sister Nell whispers,
It’s just a game rich kids play
when someone pops a cherry.
—Why would they do that? I ask,
and Nell laughs. She is shoeless too—
and sometimes,
heartless,
and shameless.
Momma says homeless
is just a rainy day away.
I am shoeless when
I work the fields,
picking strawberries
or chopping cotton.
Thick dirt gets caked
beneath my toenails.
I need to be careful when
I sling my hoe, else I might
cut off Nell’s big toe.
She works the row beside me,
but at sunset, we will go for a
long walk, and she will tell me
things I am too young to know,
like what it means to pop a cherry.
I like these walks, but
it is not a good thing to be
shoeless on asphalt in this heat.
The scorching sun loosens the gravel,
which pricks the heels of my feet.
They burn almost as much
as the raw palms of my hands,
almost as much as
the sunburn on my neck.
Because I am gloveless
and hatless too.