The lift:

Palm to Jesus

Beg for notice.

The heels are printed,

Taped from within,

And Chicago-December salty.

Unlike that which they shell

They were made

For a woman.

Lips unstained,

Mascara scarred fingertips,

And a violent hip.

Just one.

Like a moment frozen

She does not feign this.

Her mother forgot the anniversary-

Misplaced that microphone.

The song, once popular,

Is now a memory for its own sake.

Dresses have come and gone.

Littered the floors

Of the seediest bars.

She once scalp-shattered a beer bottle

On a skinhead

On a whim

To prove that she was sharp.

Heel in arch

Back in arch

Stiff calf

Breasts upward with truth

Smile painted to the ears

Hair grown;

That sort of commitment.

Sometimes

We are bred for this beauty.

Sometimes we learn it.

No matter.

We all have pain in our hearts.