My Ferragamos
by Sylvia Riojas Vaughn


My naked toenails,
polished pink just this afternoon,
poked through their nylon casing
sometime before a flight attendant
waved me onto the escape chute.

I slid easily in my satin suit.

Pulsing emergency lights give me motion sickness
though the plane lies still, broken, burning,
having flattened some farmer’s cornfield.

Yes, yes, I hear shouts
from rescue crews,
screams of the injured,
nothing from some, quiet, on their way to the morgue.

But, please God, where are they?

Italian,
expensive,
with three-inch heels,
dazzling crystal sunbursts
adorning the toes.

The envy of the charity ball fashion conscious,
more faithful than what’s-his-name
who traveled to Rome with me.

They’re worth lighting a candle for.





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