by Samantha Kalla

Dad’s shoes swallow salt water. Loafers stitched

in Taiwan, bought in Ohio, choke on sea.

Stubby toes still curl into the wear,

I watch you slip them on and yank

a tomato from the garden; sneak a camouflaged beer.

 

Throw me over your soft shoulder,

sack of potatoes, swig of PBR

Mom rolls her eyes and I’m seven

or I’m twenty-seven calling

out your name to nobody,

 

watching you slip them on, exhale

into my bike tire, sift your pocket

for a Marlboro Light.

I’ve been trying to tell you

I found them -- your favorite shoes

 

in the Atlantic & some kids would get

their ass whooped for burying their dad’s

shoes in the sand & thank you

for laughing when I couldn’t find

hidden treasure, for leaving them, so

 

long after you’re gone

grown woman, I can meet you there,

curl my stubby toes into the memories,

feel you throw me over your soft shoulder,

sack of potatoes sinking further into the sand.