mom is gone
all flesh and folds lay flat

her collection fit for a First Lady, fossils
once serving as earthly connection
vast shades of vero cuoio

warm brick, rich brandy
remnants, which once lined
her closet and eventually the garage

serenely stored in Sterilite
containers, labeled by index card
and Sharpie: beloved Vara pumps,

peeptoes, moccasins and mules,
loafers, oxfords, slingbacks,
sandals, slip-ons, flip flops,

the occasional winter boot
mom is gone

on many a holiday or birthday
she offered me shoes as gifts
but most induced

hammertoe or bunions
both well-worn and yet-worn
from cobblers’ to e-commerce goods

shoes saved like gas receipts
or used boarding passes
non-transferable in the afterlife

mom is gone

exiled, on her own land, Mother
bore a bloodless coup d’etat—
one million marchers, 3,000 pairs of footwear—

people power over martial law
freedom over Morton’s Neuroma

brother, sister, o!, mom is gone