by Pia Borsheim
I.
A friend and I strolled along,
discussing her difficult student.
She pulled up short in front of a window.
Look at those shoes, she said, pointing.
Coral-colored Stuart Weitzman heels
shone in their satin finery. A gold thread
tied to a grosgrain bow led to a price tag
of astronomical proportions. In your dreams,
I said, Give me Birkenstocks every time.
II.
The Dalai Lama and a group of monks
toured the Holocaust Museum.
He stopped and stared, paused to finger
his mala beads, murmuring.
When they reached the pile of shoes,
he unfurled a meditation mat,
placed it on the concrete floor,
knelt and wept, his own thin sandals
upturned in recessed lighting.
III.
Out into the harbor’s bay I waded,
barefoot, a slight layer of ash in the air,
the broken stones, the pummeled shells.
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